Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

Last Night

LAST night the full moon laid a cloth of white

Within my window, spread upon my bed,

And, with her old-time splendor, asked of me

To share her harvest supper. I arose,

And stepped without to pay my greetings. When,

Behold!

The old world flowered again, as it had done

When I was twenty, at the gate of life;

The meadows held untouched their virgin bloom,

The darkling trees with gleaming leaves flashed bright,

Dewy and pendant till the waiting morn;

The shadows lay like cool soft soothing hands

Upon the pastures pulsing with sweet June:

I, too, was young again, and God was just,

And through my blood propelled great future acts—

Big things to do, and thoughts, and voice to speak—

So potent was the charm of my white queen.

It was not till I walked for many miles,

And came back weary to my quiet room,

That I had once more taken back my years,

My cares, my listlessness, and stagnant grief.

And, even as I sit in full faced day,

My memory faintly shadows out this song.