William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. (1878–1962). Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1920.
Lilith, Lilith
L
Its icy beauty troubled her sleep,
Stirred and thrilled her breast with a tune
Of crystal notes that fluttered the deep.
Climbing up the tower of light,
She sought the sound and followed the flame;
Cold as snow, implacably white,
The moon spun high and muttered her name.
And like that flesh she never could thrill,
Far and pale as Paradise door,
The vision flooded meadow and hill.…
She, the flame, the passionate flower,
Awoke and cried for waking so soon.…
In a glimmering, scented, sleepless bower,
Lilith, Lilith wept for the moon.