Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
Reuben RoyHarold Crawford Stearns
A
I saw him in the street
Peering at numbers on the posts,
But most discreet:
Or slyly peeped instead,
He turned away, took off his hat,
And scratched his head.
Perhaps an hour or more,
For something in his attitude,
The clothes he wore,
Of when I was a boy
And knew the story of a man
Named Reuben Roy.
The night his wife decried
The fence he built before their house
And up the side.
Because it hid from view
The spot in which her mignonette
And tulips grew.
But each year, unawares,
He sent a sum for taxes due—
And fence repairs.
I sauntered forth to see
Whether this individual
Were really he.
His eyes, like two bright pence,
Sparkled at mine; and then he said:
“A fence.”
When people were in bed;
Before the judge could prosecute,
The culprit fled.”
And mumbled, “Thank you, sir,”
And asked me whereabouts to find
A carpenter.