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

Slow Movement

ALL those treasures that lie in the little bolted box whose tiny space is

Mightier than the room of the stars, being secret and filled with dreams:

All those treasures—I hold them in my hand—are straining continually

Against the sides and the lid and the two ends of the little box in which I guard them;

Crying that there is no sun come among them this great while and that they weary of shining;

Calling me to fold back the lid of the little box and to give them sleep finally.

But the night I am hiding from them, dear friend, is far more desperate than their night!

And so I take pity on them and pretend to have lost the key to the little house of my treasures;

For they would die of weariness were I to open it, and not be merely faint and sleepy

As they are now.