Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
MahhavisMuna Lee
T
The mystic secret that the woodland knows—
Not johnny-jump-ups in the shadows dim,
Not foxglove nor the delicate pale rose,
Nor any smallest forest thing that grows.
For he is lover and interpreter
To all shy life that blooms or sings, or goes
Fur-clad or wingèd. He knows every burr,
That clings to Summer’s hem, and each brown insect’s whir.
His heart is tender to the fleet-winged swallow,
To sea-gulls and to sparrows at their play,
And to the hook-beaked hawks that swiftly follow.
The marsh-hen, building by the sedgy shallow,
Is not more gentle with her brood than he,
Who finds her nest beside the tall rose-mallow,
And lifts aside the fern, that he may see
Her little fledglings there, and woo them cunningly.
Wren-song and thrush-song thrilling from the trees,
Bee-song shut close in mountain-pink; and strong
Sweet arrowy notes from bugles of the breeze.
With a laughing, curious lover’s eyes he sees
The sycamores, nymph-white, shake out their hair,
Green as the locks of lithe-limbed Nereides.
All things we dream of in the forest there
Are real to him, for whom a flower is a prayer.