Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
DriftwoodEmmy Veronica Sanders
T
Strange things come drifting
When the tide is high.
To the shore of the mind
Little waves run
Lifting,
With a murmured melody,
Frail forms that slip
From unknown isles away into the night.
On a crest of foam,
Strange shapes are flung,
Without name, without home,
On the shore of the mind.
Strange things are spread
When the tide runs high
Before eyes that are blind—
Pale things that lie
Dead
On the edge of the mind.