Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
EvilF. S. Flint
From “In London”
T
In the dying sun,
And the street is quiet between its rows of plane-trees,
And the walls of the gardens
With the laurel bushes.
Half aware
Of the empty black of the windows.
It is not empty:
Something shows from it—white, I feel, and round—
Something that pulls me back
To gaze, still dreaming,
To gaze and to wake and stare
At a naked woman—
Oh, beautiful!
Alone in the window.
Does she call me?
What is the lure?
And open the gate, again stopping,
And crawl again up the stone steps—
Fear driving my heart mad—
Up to the door.
Though I beat you with my fists!