Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
Open HandsH. L. Davis
A
And carry their red seed among the leaves; and spray
Beats them from the wind.
With children bringing me full stalks, running to the orchard
To strip seed for me, took my time now. Their wet hands!
This grass, white-headed because the seed’s threshed, raked
The sand rising when I imagined love, when I was
Too proud for children. Go down again—they are grown—
You sand moving, you sharp duning sand, sing against
The dead grass-blades, and fall here and cover me. Fill my hands.
Dry me out like dead bird-quills, milk my strength still. I know
That spirit is come to an end. There is no pain.”
When the wind rose I thought that spirit knew of the sand
And desired voice and hands; and that I knew that strength.
But your words hold me too close to my own grief,
And make me remember what I desired, and know.