Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
At BaiaH. D.
I
In a dream you would have brought
Some lovely perilous thing:
Orchids piled in a great sheath,
As who would say, in a dream,
“I send you this,
Who left the blue veins
Of your throat unkissed.”
That never took mine—
Your hands that I could see
Drift over the orchid heads
So carefully;
Your hands, so fragile, sure to lift
So gently, the fragile flower stuff—
Ah, ah, how was it
The very form, the very scent,
Not heavy, not sensuous,
But perilous—perilous!—
Of orchids, piled in a great sheath,
And folded underneath on a bright scroll,
Some word:
For white hands the lesser white,
Less lovely, of flower leaf.
No touch, but forever and ever this!