Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
KinshipFlora Shufelt Rivola
I
Unto this wee, mysterious thing
Upon my breast—my own, and yet
How could I more than I beget?
At the feather-touch of searching lips.
Of tiny, groping finger-tips,
I know the surge of something more,
Deeper within than lived before;
As though, when this was come to birth,
A largess, more of heaven than earth,
Enriched my spirit, making me
A part of all Infinity.
Yet of a richer destiny:
Its shining leaves sing in the sun
As I unto my little one;
We share creation’s leap and thrill,
Yet hold I something stranger still.
What is this flaming tenderness?
What summons me to this caress?
O Power that gave, make my love strong!
The sleeper stirs; again my song
Stills him to dreaming—dreams of what?—
Things I knew once and have forgot?
My eager spirit sunward springs;
And deep I sink my roots, and deeper,
With each soft breath of the wee sleeper!