Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
PlumsP. T. R.
I
Though I know—
standing on the path with the sun in my hair
I make a sufficiently pleasing picture.
The plums are soft with bloom, and luscious purple—
If I took a step forward and held out my green smock,
Looked up and laughed at him,
He would throw them, showering rain-drops, into my lap,
And, quickly descending,
Slide his arm round my waist and—probably—kiss me.
Shall I go, I wonder?—
No, I will have none of these things.