Small Press: The Magazine of Independent Publishing; V. 3, N. 1; September/October 1985
R. R. Bowker, , 1985, Wraps, , , Good
122 pp. Wraps soiled and bumped. ''Our Second Anniversary Issue.'' Contents: Features: Books from small presses; Over there: Americans are still busy publishing in Paris by David Applefield; Confessions of a Frankfurt first-timer by Janja Stanich; In Toronto: The Canadian Booksellers Association Convention by Beverly Slopen; Land of Small Presses by Shane Cleary (In Ireland that's the only kind of publishing there is); In Stockhom: The Swedish Book Fair by Nadia Steinzor; Doing Business with mainland China: China books and periodicals by Marianne Yen; Cross-cultural communications by Joseph Barbato (dedicated to bringing out notable works in neglected languages); Funding a Latin American poetry project: A saga with two surprises by Frank Graziano; 'Reckless and Doomed': Johnathan Williams and Jargon by Michael McFew; plus the regular departments and reviews. Cover: Fritz Eichenberg, wood engraving based on E. A. Poe story.
Make me no vows of constancy, dear friend, To love me, though I die, thy whole life long, And love no other till thy days shall end - Nay, it were rash and wrong. If thou canst love another, be it so; I would not reach out of my quiet grave To bind thy heart, if it should choose to go - Love should not be a slave. My placid ghost, I trust, will walk serene In clearer light than gilds those earthly morns, Above the jealousies and envies keen, Which sow this life with thorns. Thou wouldst not feel my shadowy caress; If, after death, my soul should linger here; Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness, Love's presence, warm and near. It would not make me sleep more peacefully That thou wert wasting all thy life in woe For my poor sake; what love thou hast for me, Bestow it ere I go. Carve not upon a stone when I am dead The praises which remorseful mourners give To women's graves - a tardy recompense - But speak them while I live. Heap not the heavy marble o'er my head To shut away the sunshine and the dew; Let small blooms grow there, and let grasses wave, And raindrops filter through. Thou wilt meet many fairer and more gay Than I; but, trust me, thou canst never find One who will love and serve thee night and day With a more single mind. Forget me when I die! The violets Above my breast will blossom just as blue, Nor miss thy tears; e'en nature's self forgets; But while I live, be true.Elizabeth Akers Allen [1832-1911]