Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
To CMarsden Hartley
Of an uncertain afternoon,
When you thought the time
For new delights was over for that day,
Say to yourself, who rule many a lost
Moment in this shadowy domain,
Saving it from its dusty grey perdition,
Say to yourself that is a flash
Of lightning from a so affectionate west,
Where the clear sky, that you know, resides.
The rainbow has crossed the desert once again.
I took the blade of bliss and notched it
In a roseate place.
It shed a crimson stream—
That was our flush of joy.
In the way they always come,
Swinging gilded fancies round your head.
So it is with surfaces.
Adoringly,
Strip branches of their blooms for you—
Young carpets for young ways.
Edge to edge,
Make fierce resplendent fire.
I have lived with bright stone,
Burned like carnelian in the sun,
Myself;
Myself seen branches wither.
It cuts the very crystal from the globe.
To listen.