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

The Pool

DO you remember the dark pool at Nîmes,

The pool that had no bottom?

Shadowed by Druids ere the Romans came—

Dark, still, with little bubbles rising

So quietly level with its rim of stone

That one stood shuddering with the breathless fear

Of one short step?

My little sister stood beside the pool

As dark as that of Nîmes.

I saw her white face as she took the plunge;

I could not follow her, although I tried.

The silver bubbles circled to the brink,

And then the water parted:

With dream-white face my little sister rose

Dripping from that dark pool, and took the hands

Outstretched to meet her.

I may not speak to her of all she’s seen;

She may not speak to me of all she knows,

Because her words mean nothing:

She chooses them

As one to whom our language is quite strange,

As children make queer words with lettered blocks

Before they know the way.…

My little sister stood beside the pool—

I could not plunge in with her, though I tried.