Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
NightFrank S. Gordon
Tribal Songs from the South-west
W
Woeful, hear the tread of sleep.
Who spoke?
It was a lone whip-poor-will
By the fallen tree, chanting mournfully
For the dead, or stretching a memory thread
Between the Now and Other Years;
Striking his harp
Of tears.
Sweetness, see the eyes draw near.
Who winked?
It was the smallest fire-fly,
Here and there and now nowhere,
Dust of star come down so far
To the little Below from the great Above,
Flashing his signals
Of love.
Lovely, see the maiden blush.
Who whispered?
It was the tiny hidden spring,
From light caress of tenderness
Sending back on a trembling track
A kiss from the Here to a golden Sphere;
Lifting her lips
In fear.
Wondrous, hear the phantoms stir.
Who sighed?
It was the little top-most leaf
Of aspen bough, when rocked somehow
By a hand somewhere; hearing the air
Of that which Is in that which Seems,
Wafting its heart
Of dreams.
Holy, feel the kiss anew.
Who breathed?
It was the humblest flower,
Whose humid scent in petal tent
Turned up the flap and, joy enwrapped,
Escaped the clay to float on air;
Nodding her head
In prayer.
Sadness, touch of the hand unseen!
Who prayed?
It was I, but a new-born babe,
Whose thoughts unpent, in bewilderment,
Fumbled for light in the web of night;
A cry of nothingness unto infinite skies;
Sweeping my strings
Of sighs.