Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
Edgar Allan PoeDuBose Heyward
O
When the tides were low,
And the surf fell sobbing
To the undertow,
I trod the windless dunes
Alone with Edgar Poe.
Like a fabled bloom
On the myrtle thickets,
In the swaying gloom
Hung the clustered windows
Of the barrack-room.
Tenuous and far
As the beauty shaken
From a vagrant star,
Throbbed the ache and passion
Of an old guitar.
Like a swinging gate,
Leaving us unfettered
And emancipate;
Confidants of Destiny,
Intimates of Fate.
Silent, while the night,
Seething with its planets,
Parted to our sight,
Showing as infinity
In its breadth and height.
Tossing back his hair
With the old loved gesture,
Raised his face, and there
Shone that agony that those
Loved of God must bear.
Silence has to say—
He and I together
As alone we lay
Waiting for the slow sweet
Miracle of day.
Spiralled up the dawn
Dew-clear, night-cool,
And the stars were gone,
I arose exultant,
Like a man new-born.
Heavy-limbed and spent,
Turned, as one must turn at last
From the sacrament;
And his eyes were deep with God’s
Burning discontent.