Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
Fourth DimensionBabette Deutsch
H
By three, though he seemed not to know it:
One whom he loved, who shut him out;
One hid her passion in her doubt;
One was too fond and wise to show it.
Until he tossed with every flicker
In agonies of sad self-blame,
That left him tired, but not yet tame
Enough to cease love’s tireless bicker.
Uncertain of what stirred in each.
Walking through labyrinths to find him,
She saw him shorn, but could not blind him;
And silence was her wittiest speech.
And suffered, though she may have smiled,
To know that barren wishes tore him,
When one was ready to adore him
As if he were not still her child.
Too fond to pity her he scorned,
Her hours, like his own, were haunted
By devils that might well have daunted
A monster likewise hoofed and horned.
A woman very like her own.
The second wondered how to woo her,
While ever seeking to eschew her,
Fearful of what she must have known.
Of this, one dropped, and that, one dared.
While he, from his peculiar angle,
Half-wished that loneliness might strangle
What they so curiously shared.