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)

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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

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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.

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[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.

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Ltr to his parents, 23 March 1916

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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?

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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]

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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]

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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.

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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:

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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

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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!

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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]

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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.

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Ltr to his nephew, Frank Jones, 16 May 1967

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