Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
The SleeperJessica Nelson North
Night.O
What is that strange and rosy slenderness
You hold against your heart with so much tenderness?
The Sleeper.It is my wife I hold—
I love her more than life.
She has hair of bronze and gold,
And in twin strands divides it;
It lies across her bosom surplice-wise.
This I know to be true though darkness hides it.
Night.Now all things false dissolve beneath the moon!
This is a sheaf of whispering dreams you hold,
Bound by the tawny sinews of your arm.
They nod together with plumes of bronze and gold,
They breathe and are warm;
They speak together in a sibilant tune.
The Sleeper.It is my own wife.
Her mouth, that is merry and wise,
Is shut; and the lids are shut that cover
Her faithful eyes.
Night.A sheaf of dreams—hush!
She is untrue, | Brother and brother! | This one is new— | Where is the other? The Second Dream. | I hear men say | He had ceased to love her. | Even today | His voice can move her. The Third Dream. | I have seen her tremble | When she meets his eyes. | She is deft with lies, | She is quick to dissemble. The Fourth Dream. | How is this done, | Brother and brother, | To sleep with one | And dream of another? |
My wife. | My wife.
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