Louis Untermeyer, ed. (1885–1977). Modern American Poetry. 1919.
Josephine Preston Peabody18741922Spinning in April
M
Crescent moon so young to see, above the April ways,
Whiten, bloom not yet, not yet, within the twilight yonder;
All my spinning is not done, for all the loitering days.
Oh, my heart’s a meadow-lark that ever would be free!
Well it is that I must spin until the light is dying;
Well it is the little wheel must turn all day for me!
Something calls for ever, calls me ever, low and clear:
A little tree as young as I, the coming summer shadows,—
The voice of running waters that I always thirst to hear.
Oftentime it coaxes, as I sit weary-wise,
Till the wild life hastens out to wild things all entreating,
And leaves me at the spinning-wheel with dark, unseeing eyes.