Ralph Mortimer Jones (1879-1969)My grandfather, Ralph Mortimer
Jones, wrote poems. In those days, many people wrote poems. Ralph
was good enough that several of his poems were published. My
understanding of Ralph when he was alive was minimal. I was young
and I didnt really want to know him. I would be dragged to Boston
on the mandatory family visit, and we might sometimes drive Ralph
around. (He never learned to drive.) Ralph was an old man then,
losing his hearing and sight, and with a gravelly voice that I had
trouble following. My memories are almost uniformly negative:
straining to understand his questions, yet prodded by my parents to
answer; once being offered half-melted ice cream from a
malfunctioning refrigerator; finally wondering at the blue powder
spread along the baseboards of his room. In the end I remember
sitting shiftily in his hospital room, shortly before he died.
It was only later I got a more whole idea of who he had been.
His daughter, my Aunt Jean, described him to an interviewer once in
this way: His mind seethed with wit and a quiet love of just being
alive.1 Ive heard similar things from others. It comes through in
his poems. After Ralph died in January 1969, my father took me up
to Boston to look over his things and see if there was anything
there I wanted. I wound up taking a 1911 edition of the
Encyclopedia Britannica and a 1913 Oliver typewriter, both of which
seem remarkably to have satisfied Ralphs needs in these departments
over the rest of his life. If there were poems there too, I dont
know what became of them. If any survive, they remain to be
discovered. Over the years I gradually grew more interested in
Ralph. Somewhere along the way, I learned that he had written
poetry, and that some of his poems had even been published. These
published poems are what I have now gathered in here. I have
arranged the poems for the most part by date of publication.
Serendipitously, this arrangement often produces meaningful
groupings of the poems. Ive also provided a bit of Ralphs life, to
serve as a rudimentary frame to the poems.
Ralph grew up in Wolfville, Nova Scotia, a town on the Bay of
Fundy, with its famous extreme tides. Wolfvilles own claim to fame
was Acadia University, where Robert V. Jones, Ralphs father, had
once been a student and had now long been a professor, teaching
Greek and Latin. Acadia was a Baptist institution, and the Joneses
were fervent Baptists. Reportedly, Ralphs father had intended his
older1
Quoted in Shirley Dobson Gilroy, Amelia, Pilot in Pearls (Link
Press, 1985)
1
brother Aubrey for the ministry, but Aubrey drowned in a
swimming accident when Ralph was seven, and this burden was assumed
by a reluctant but dutiful Ralph. Wolfville was a small townjust
2,000 people, nearly all of them Baptists. And Acadia, where Ralph
spent four years as a general (non-degree) student, was a similarly
small university. There were 33 students in Ralphs senior class.
The world Ralph grew up ina world of small towns, gaslight, and
horse-power was very different from the world in which he would
spend most of his adult life, but this earlier world persists as
the background to many of his poems.
The earliest poem I have found is titled Loves Law. It was
published in the June 1902 issue of The Canadian Magazine and dates
from Ralphs student days.
LOVES LAW A FAIR Maid had a heart and sought to sell it, And
many came to gaze and some to buy, And one poor lad (alack! I weep
to tell it), Who did but sigh and sob and sob and sigh, Why do you
sigh and sob, good lad? I said. Alas, have you not heard? Sweet
Cupid's dead. And rich men came and flashed rare gems, and flaunted
Smooth silks to soften sleep; and great men came And offered gilt
renown; and princes vaunted The tawdry splendour of a noble name.
But still the Maiden shook her lovely head, Your wares do shine,
but so does glass, she said. But one sweet Night that whispered
like a lover, The lad of sobs and sighs slipped thro the crowd And
stole the heart. And when they did discover The prize was gone, the
Rich and Great and Proud Denounced the thief; but she did turn soft
eyes Of liquid love on him, and spoke thus wise: The law of love is
good. Yet doth it punish Not him who steals, but him who pays; and
cries Him but a foolish knave who doth diminish By what he gives
the worth of what he buys. For lawful love is most unlawful trade,
And he who steals shall keep, the Maiden said. 2
Ralph was at Acadia until 1902, first as a student, then as an
instructor helping his father teach the other students Greek and
Latin. In the autumn of that year Ralph applied to the Rochester
Theological Seminary, in Rochester, New York, graduating in 1906
with a B.A. My grandmother, Gladys Whidden, graduated that same
year from Acadia Ladies Seminary. She came from a well-to-do family
in Antigonish, a town some distance east of Wolfville. Ralph and
Gladys were married that August in Antigonish and left almost
immediately for Chester, Vermont, where Ralph took up his duties as
a Baptist minister in September, at the age of 27. They would live
in Chester for the next fourteen years, accumulating around them a
young family. In his Chester ministry, Ralph succeeded the Rev.
Henry Crocker, a formidable figurepresident of the state Baptist
historical association, author of a massive History of the Baptists
in Vermont (1913), and a Civil War veteranbut also, like Ralph, an
amateur poet. Ralph and Henry became good friends and no doubt
helpful critics of one anothers work. In honor of Henrys eightieth
birthday in 1925, his sons had a collection of his poetry
published. I have been unable to find any poems from Ralphs first
years in Chester. Perhaps he was preoccupied adjusting to family
life and the life of a pastor. He is said to have been something of
an introvert, which likely made his chosen profession something of
a challenge for him. In later years a colleague noted of him that,
while a fine preacher and scholar, He does not do much pastoral
work due to a shyness in meeting people.2 Gladys returned to her
parents home in Antigonish to give birth to her first two children,
Leah in 1907 and my father in 1911, but the later twomy Uncle Bob
(1914) and Aunt Jean (1918)were born in Chester. To this early
preference of my grandmother I owe my dual citizenship.
Ralphs first two poems from this period were composed after war
broke out in Europe in 1914. The poems share a pessimism about the
war and what it represents to him.
A MODERN GRIEVANCE A THOUSAND men loafed on the deck, Above the
lapping tide,2
Ltr from Charles Durden, minister of 1st Baptist Church,
Bloomington, Ill., to John F. Vichert, dean of the Colgate
Rochester Divinity School, 24 January 1930
3
When death like a rat, stole underneath, And they knew not how
they died. A hundred men lay on the hill, All in the idle sun;
Death clove the air ten miles away, And shattered every one. No
foeman's face the sailor saw, Nor sword the soldier lifted; There
was only the trail of a periscope, And a little smoke that drifted.
Oh, give me the pike and the saber-slash, And the pant of the
foeman's breath, When eye to eye and foot to foot Men fought with
visible death. Give me the shock of Waterloo, And the shriek of
Trafalgar, The rush and riot of sweating troops, And the pounding
men-of-war. But not a rat with death in his nose, And a giant that
croucheth low! Oh, curse the clever collegers Who trick a soldier
so! [Munseys Magazine, June 1915] RECESSION THE hands of time turn
back. Nations who played At being cultured weary of the game, Throw
down their brittle toys. Once more arrayed For lust and war, true
to his ancient fame The Goth goes out to battle. Neath the gloze Of
Slavic smoothness flares the Tartar blood. The fiery Frank rushes
to meet his foes; And, gloating at his side in deadlier mood, The
naked Caledonian smites and kills. Not less the furious Celt. And,
where the sun Gleams cold on snowy heights of Raetian hills, The
age-old Roman grapples with the Hun. So, like a gilded dream, have
passed away The thousand years that are but yesterday.
4
[Current Opinion, March 1916]
Most of Ralphs poems were published first in newspapers and only
later in magazines or books. For example, Recession first appeared
in the New York Post, and was later picked up by Current Opinion.
In those days, a daily poem was a common feature of newspaper
editorial pages, a practice that continued into the middle decades
of the twentieth century.
On the lighter side, Ralph would occasionally include a snippet
of verse when writing to relatives, with the poem often tied to the
occasion of the letter. The following is an example. Its taken from
a letter Ralph wrote to his parents in early 1916, when my Uncle
Bob was a toddler. In the letter, Ralph noted that Robert is
costing a lot. But, dear lad, we dont grudge it! 3 In the poem,
Ralph plays on the similarities between his fathers name, Robert V.
Jones, and his sons name, Robert P. Jones.
Said Robert V. To Robert P.: What splendid chaps we two are:
Said Robert P. To Robert V.: Im not as good as you are! Said Robert
V. To Robert P.: You will, when youre a man, sir. Said Robert P. To
Robert V.: Ill do the best I can, sir.
In the same letter Ralph optimistically downplayed concerns over
the health of his father, who had recently retired from teaching:
[I] pray that I, at half your age, may be half as sprightly. His
father would die the following year.
3
Ltr to his parents, 23 March 1916
5
6
It seems reasonable to surmise that Ralph composed poems for his
children from time to time. If so, the following three, which
appeared in The Youths Companion in 1917 and 1918, might be assumed
to represent the cream of that crop.
VERBIAGE I ASKED a pretty Adjective To go with me to town. She
said, I really cannot, sir, Im promised to the Noun. I saw them
sitting side by side, And neither one had stirred. What keeps you
now? I asked. They said, Were waiting for the Verb. But when the
Verb came dashing up There was no more delay; He took them up into
his cab And whisked them both away! So Adjectives are pretty Maids,
And Nouns are lovers frantic, And Verbs are Cabbies brisk and bold.
Now isnt this romantic? [The Youths Companion, 15 February
1917]
THE TWO TOWNS Pray can you tell me, little maid, The way to
Grumble-town? And first she pointed up the road, And then she
pointed down. She pointed up and pointed down Then shook her pretty
head: Ive never been to Grumble-town, The little maiden said. Then
maybe you can show me, child, The Town of Pleasantville?
7
Oh, yes, indeed, she said, and smiled; Its just beyond the hill.
Good sir, its just beyond the hill; And if youll come with me, Ill
take you into Pleasantville; Thats where I live, said she. [The
Youths Companion, 24 May 1917]
I SAW THE SPRING COME RIDING I saw the spring come riding, Ere
winter yet was done; The pallid little flakes of snow Began to leap
and run; For lo, a million grass blades Were flashing in the sun! I
saw the spring come riding, And oh, her face was sweet! And shining
little raindrops Did gallop at her feet: Ten thousand little drops
of rain In shining armor neat. I saw the spring come riding, And
none might say her nay; So all the birds began to sing A merry
roundelay, As minstrels sing in balconies Along the Queens highway.
I saw the spring come riding In Lincoln green arrayed; Her yellow
hair lay down her back All in a gleaming braid; Nor have I seen for
many a day So gay a cavalcade. [The Youths Companion, 2 May
1918]
8
The following poem, The Oxen, published in 1918, begins with the
narrator urgently honking his vehicles hornan interesting
perspective when one considers that Ralph never learned to drivebut
by the end the oxen of the poems title have managed to draw him far
away from the frenetic present.
THE OXEN INTENT to greet my task and have it done, Shocking with
blatant horn the drowsy way, I saw a team of oxen heave and sway
Adown a tawny aisle of powdered sun, Mulling their tedious cuds.
And slowly one Turned on me his bland visage, wherein lay The
tolerance and dreams of yesterday And all the patient years that
Time had spun. My soul drew back to Nile and Rameses; And Syrian
herdsmen plodding to and fro; And stiff Phoenician friezes; and the
slow Sad ways of God . . . Abruptly I did ease My shuddering engine
to the languid breeze, Vaguely abashed that I should hurry so. [The
Country Gentleman, 18 May 1918]
9
The next three poems appeared in Contemporary Verse between 1918
and 1920. The first considers the Crucifixion as experienced by
Mary, while the second and third share a similar longing for
persons and things unrecoverable.
MARY Lord Jesu hung upon a tree. Even the dead came out to see:
So sad it was and yet so rare To see Lord Jesu dying there. How can
I bear to lose Him so, Cried Mary in a voice of wo . Lord Jesu
waited on a hill. The little stars stood very still. With
angel-wings the cloud was white That took Lord Jesu out of sight.
How can I bear to have Him go, Wept Mary on the hill below. It did
not make her sorrow less To know He died mankind to bless; Nor
would her tender grief abate To see Him pass thro Heaven's gate.
Ah, Mary Mother, fond and true, Lord Christ was still a babe to
you. [Contemporary Verse, May 1918]
BED-TIME I MIND, love, how it ever was this way: That I would to
my task; and soon Id hear Your little fluttering sigh, and you
would say, It's bed-time, dear. So you would go and leave me at my
work; And I would turn to it with steady will, And wonder why the
room had grown so dark, The night so chill.
10
Betimes Id hear the whisper of your feet Upon the stair; and you
would come to me, All rosy from your dreams, and take your seat
Upon my knee. Poor, tired boy! youd say. But I would miss The
lonely message of your eyes, and so Proffer the hasty bribery of a
kiss, And let you go. But now, dear heart, that you have scaled the
stair To that dim chamber far above the sun, I fumble with my
futile task, nor care To get it done. For all is empty since you
said good-night (So spent you were and weary with the day!) And on
the hearth the ashes of delight Lie cold and gray. Ah, sweet my
love, could I but wish you down In that white raiment which I know
you wear; And hear once more the rustle of your gown Upon the
stair; Could I but have you, drowsily-sweet, to say The tender
little words that once I knew How gaily would I put my work away
And go with you. [Contemporary Verse, May 1919]
A PRAYER Great Father of Mankind, I do not ask A place too near
Thy Throne; nor ecstacy Of harps; nor crown and robe; nor any task
Too high for me. I am one of simple tastes. Give Thou to me A
sun-drenched window on a shaven lawn With here an elm and there a
maple-tree And my man John. Give me the measured dripping from the
eaves Of Summer rain; old Dobbin in his stall; 11
The scent of apples; and the rustle of leaves In drowsy Fall.
Give me, when day is done, to watch the flare Of the pine-knot in
ruddy ingle-nook, With my wife Mary in her easy-chair A pipe and
book. Give me the curly-headed rogue, whose shrill And careless
ways were wont to irk me so Who went away and left the world so
still Eight years ago. Give me Ah, Lord, the things of yesterday
Which once I little prized but now do lack, Were Heaven for me I
only pray To have them back. [Contemporary Verse, May 1920]
From 1921 to 1930 I have found no published poems of Ralphs. As
in the early years of his marriage, this may reflect a period of
adjustment to tumult in his personal life. In 1920 Gladys left
Ralph, taking the children with her back to Antigonish, where she
and Leah moved back in with her parents and the other children were
distributed to friends and relatives to care for. The next year
Ralph in turn left Chester, though in the opposite direction, to
become pastor of a Baptist church in the small farming community of
El Paso, Illinoisthis on the understanding that his family would
soon be joining him. They never did, though the male portion of the
family gradually migrated westwardfirst my uncle Bob and later my
fatherafter having been found to be too much for their erstwhile
caretakers to handle. During this time the Baptist parsonage in El
Paso remained vacant, with Ralphand later his sonsboarding with the
deacon and his wife, my mothers grandparents (but thats another
story). During this time, Ralph may have restricted his poetry to
the short verses that would routinely follow the church
announcements each week in the El Paso Journal. The following are
two examples:
12
More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of, For
so the whole round world is every way Bound by the gold chains
about the feet of God.
I am the only one, but I am one, I cannot do everything, But I
can do something. What I can do I ought to do, With Gods help I
will do.
In 1930 my father graduated from El Paso High School, and at the
same time Ralphs ministry in El Paso came to an end. It proved to
be his last pastorate. It was also the beginning of the Great
Depression, but fortunately for Ralph, he had been provided with a
parachute of sorts that would soften the landing. A member of his
former Chester congregation died about this time and in her will
she made Ralph a significant bequest. He was able to use this money
to purchase an apartment house in Boston, and he and Bob now moved
there to begin a new life. The move from small town to big city
must have been a big change for Ralph and Bob, but it was probably
eased by Ralph being at last freed from the day-to-day demands of a
ministers life. In terms of his published poems, this seems to have
been Ralphs most productive period, with several poems published in
the New York Times and elsewhere. The first poem from this period,
however, was published in Queens Quarterly, a journal published by
Queens University in Kingston, Ontario. The subject of the poem was
Halifax, Nova Scotia, and the magazine noted that Ralph, though now
residing in the United States, looks to Canada for the inspiration
for much of his verse.
A SUNDAY IN HALIFAX I AN OLD STREET
13
I do not like cities that grow too fast, That too imperiously
thrust aside The hallowed memory of ancient pride, Interring the
pale beauty of the past Beneath tall obelisks, grotesquely vast. I
do not like their streets so starkly wide With no dim shelter where
a ghost may hide: I feel no certainty that I shall last. But here
in you, gray city on the sea, I take my ease and loaf, and feel
that I Am one with all the things that used to be That passed and
yet abide. I know not why I love so much their quiet company Unless
it be that I shall never die. II THE PUBLIC GARDENS I think Gods
palette must have flamed this way When, standing on the edge of
Arcady, He pressed the colours out so lavishly That never was there
such a brave display Of red and green and gold and silver gray. In
sudden shame I put away from me My little dingy dark theology: I
did not know that God could be so gay. I will go home and tell my
dearest lass To paint her cheeks, and have her two feet shod In
golden shoes, and wear a scarlet dress; And I will shout with
laughter and applaud To watch her pirouette across the grass How
can I match the gaiety of God! III ST. PAULS CHURCH The little
garrulous bell stopped suddenly, Leaving a hallowed stillness on
the air; And I went on into the church to share My soul with
friendly ghosts who sat with me: A powdered tory here of high
degree, A scarlet-coated captain over there. The rector spanned the
centuries with his prayer: God save our Sovran lord, King George,
prayed he. 14
And then I thought how He who dwells in space Under the tall
cool stars, would gladly miss The spell of cold cathedrals, and the
grace Of lifted arches, for a shrine like this; For past and
present in this genial place Join heart and hand in holy armistice.
[Queens Quarterly, 1931] The next four poems vary, though two
continue a preoccupation with the 1914-1918 war, one published on
Armistice Day 1932, the other on the anniversary of American entry
in 1933.
APPLE ORCHARD The angels shook their wings last night and, lo,
This sudden beauty fell upon the trees Like a fresh bridal gown, or
Summer snow Miraculously warmed. Blow softly, breeze, And rumple
not too soon, nor rudely stain This fugitive loveliness, rare with
the flush Of such angelic shapes as have not lain In passions lusty
arms, lest in a rush Of homesick ruth it vanish like a cloud And
melt into the meads of Paradise. O scarcely dare I breathe or talk
aloud Or move my hands or turn away my eyes For fear by conscious
motion, I dispel What is half-dream or wholly miracle! [Bozart and
Contemporary Verse, volume 8]
1918 I came across the name, an hour ago, Of Silas Drew, just
half-way down the list, Of Soldiers Killed in Action. Well, I know
That hell be missed. He was so commonplace and prone to thrive On
little-village life, it doesnt seem 15
He could be dead that way. He used to drive Pecks order team.
And even now his eyes look into mine The order book poised deftly
on his palm Well, whats today? Our grapes are extra fine. I thank
you, maam. The little church will miss his freckled face Beside the
shrill sopranos, and the queer Abrupt explosions of his cautious
bass Still haunt my ear. And now hes dead in France, like some old
knight Who fought with paynims in the long-ago For his fair lady;
and it seemeth right To have it so. Ah, dear Democracy, how many
brave And strong and gay, who left a shining name In storied verse,
have gone into the grave For your true fame? And yet to me there
lies some special gleam Of finer grace in this: that Silas Drew
Should clamber down from his old order team To die for you. [The
New York Times, 11 November 1932]
CYRUS IN TOWN His garments were incomparably mean. The morning
sun, with laughing malice threw His shadow on the street, where all
might view His gross hands dangling; and each twisted vein And
corrugated ridge was like the lean And furrowed mountain soil which
daily drew His shoulders to the earth; for such is due When Natures
thane pays court unto his queen. But in his level eyes the soul
that shone Was brave and fine; the gaze of one the peer 16
Of daintier breeds; so void of menial fear And that pale
trickery which stoops to fawn That I pray humble grace to lay him
on This frugal measure of a sonneteer. [The New York Times, 15
February 1933]
AMERICA ENTERS THE WAR, APRIL 1917 Knights, grim and spent,
about a council-board I need not stay to tell each one by name. But
there were Louis of the heart of flame, And broad-backed John, with
his two-handed sword. And mighty Ivan, lean and battle-scarred;
Pale Giovan was there, who won good fame At red Gorizia; he of
slighter frame, In shorn and dinted casque is Belgias lord. But one
comes late, in tunic all awry, With sword ill girt and passionate
young face, With not cuirass nor tuille to guard the grace Of ample
chest and undulating thigh. Grim, battered knights rose up right
eagerly, And rose right up to give the novice place. [The New York
Times, 18 April 1933]
CATBIRD Ah, there at last I have seen you, small forester! Is it
today or last week that you came, Garbed like a minister, voiced
like a chorister? Why do you wear such a comical name?
Galeoscoptes, the scientists call you; Carolinensis the rest of it
goes. There, little sir, is a name to enthrall you; Sure, it should
set you right up on your toes!
17
See, how the bush where youre sitting, God save you, Suddenly
blazes, a bonfire of song! Are you pronouncing the name that they
gave you, Always deliciously getting it wrong? [The New York Times,
4 May 1934]
The following three poems on watery themes appeared in the
Christian Science Monitor during the summer of 1934.
BOATS The Summer sky Is a blue ocean. Little cloud-boats Move
over it Propelled by silver paddles. They are fragile boats: Only
poets can sail them. [The Christian Science Monitor, 11 June
1934]
STILL WATER AT NIGHT In I flashed! The still stars scattered;
The pale moon shattered! A universe crashed! [The Christian Science
Monitor, 27 June 1934] HARBOR FOG Great ocean liners shoulder
through the mist. A battleship pierces the fog with ghostly
turrets. Little tugs patter, like errand-boys, along shadowy
harborlanes. 18
My heart turns over when a sailing-boat Slips like a dream into
a world of sleep. [The Christian Science Monitor, 20 July 1934]
The next few poems again cover a variety of themes, including
the war.
AN OLD DAGUERROTYPE Dear lady Ann, the beauty of your face Is
like brook-water, after parching heat, In the still shelter of some
village street Where tall trees on white houses interlace Pales
tapestries of shadowa quiet place Where, from the tired citys
drumming feet And all foul coils of clamor and deceit, You grant me
freedom, lady, by your grace. For, even more, to me your loveliness
Is like a quick shrine. So, when I fare Into your presence, Ann, I
loiter where At vesper-time the honey-colored glass Lets sunset in,
the priests intone a mass, And silver temple-bells invite to
prayer. [The New York Times, 16 July 1934]
1914 A.D. The sad moon watched above the huddled dead When down
the night the Master made His way. A lambent splendor flamed about
His head; Prone at His feet the broken soldiers lay. 19
Poor blemished lads who late had known the shelter Of quiet cots
beneath a kindlier sky, All flung together in a bloody welter: The
most were dead, but some had need to die. And oh, I thought that He
in some high fashion Would speak His wrath or droop in gray
despair; But in His eyes dwelt only sweet compassion, And half a
smile that brooded like a prayer: A little tender smile of prayer
that drifted Across that grievous field in heavenly balm. Then, as
I looked, the Masters hand was lifted; I saw the ragged nail-print
in His palm. I could not hear His words so softly spoken, But well
I knew they held no breath of ill; For lo! The dead men took them
for a token, And smiled a little, and lay very still. [The New York
Times, 26 August 1934]
AGE TWELVE THEOLOGIZES They tell me heaven is far away Beyond
the sky, And people go up there to stay After they die; But I
remember, after all, When I was seven A Christmas tree, however
small, Would reach to heaven. [The New York Times, 7 December
1934]
DAY AND NIGHT Day, a spendthrift, rich in treasure, Spills, with
lavish hand, Golden largess without measure Over all the land.
20
Night, his thrifty helpmate, grieving, After him doth range,
Gathering up his treasure, leaving Only silver change; Brings it to
him, softly beaming, Kisses him with pride, Sends his wanton
lordship gleaming On another ride. [The New York Times, 18 January
1935]
NECROMANCY Stark fields beneath the leaden sky No verdure bring;
Yet are they green to me, for I Have seen the Spring. So, though
your eyes are cold and wan As Winters sea, Yet always, from some
day long gone, They smile on me. [The New York Times, 29 February
1936]
21
The last published poem of which I am aware, is from early 1941,
when Ralph would have been 62.
LETTERS I do not write so many letters now. But I recall when
there was quite a pile Of letters to be answered; now, I vow,
Theyve shrunk so small I have to think a while To figure how it
happened. Only today Fred left his home and gave me no address: Id
thought he, more than most, would want to stay In that old
weathered mansion; but I guess So many of his friends had recently
Decided on a change he thought it best To join up with the party. I
agree He wouldnt feel quite right without the rest. Well, he knows
my address. I wonder whether I may not entertain the very dim And
distant hope that, with a silver feather Plucked from the wings of
the kind seraphim, Hell write to me, and put me wise to where Hes
living now, and how he likes it there. [The New York Times, 10
February 1941]
During the 1940s, Ralph was on his own, boarding in Boston and
taking odd jobs. Bob had graduated high school and was waiting on
tables as he worked his way through college. The Second World War
interrupted this picture. Bob enlisted in the Army Air Forces and
was sent to the South Pacific. After his return he resumed his
studies at Boston University, where he met my Aunt Marge. They were
married at Trinity Church in Boston, and Ralph subsequently began
accompanying them to services, eventually finding himself more at
home with the Episcopalians than with the Baptists. 22
Eventually too my aunt and uncle were able to convince Ralph to
move in with them, which was all to the good. This was the time of
my memories, of the trips to Boston. Ralph had already been
experiencing hearing loss for decadessince his years in Illinoisand
by the time I knew him he and my father were forever finetuning his
hearing aid to help him make out the conversation going on around
him. His vision too had become successively reduced by glaucoma,
that beautiful and terrible word representing, as it does in my
case, a disease for which there is no cure, and which wakens me
every day to a world that has grown dimmer overnight.4 Ralph died
January 16th, 1969, at Peter Bent Brigham Hospital in Boston. We
drove up for the funeral. I remember thinking, when I looked at him
in the coffin, how much better he looked.
During his lifetime, a few of Ralphs poems were selected for
inclusion in various anthologies, including Great Poems of the
English Language (1932), The Book of American Poetry (1934), and
Anthology of the Worlds Best Poems (1948). Ralph was particularly
proud of this. When completing alumni questionnaires for the
Rochester Theological Seminary in his later years, most of the
accomplishments he reported were his poems. I have no idea what the
seminary made of this.
4
Ltr to his nephew, Frank Jones, 16 May 1967
23