Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
September MidnightSara Teasdale
From “Love Songs”
L
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
Ceaseless, insistent.
The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence
Under a moon waning and worn, broken,
Tired with summer.
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember, soon will the winter be on us,
Snow-hushed and heavy.
While I gaze, O fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
Lest they forget them.