Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
PhasesWallace Stevens
Waiting until we pass.
They sit idly there,
They sip the glass.
There’s rain. The season grieves.
It was silver once,
And green with leaves.
Will see us on parade,
Hear the loud drums roll—
And serenade.
That it was not
Like Agamemnon’s story.
Only, an eyeball in the mud,
And Hopkins,
Flat and pale and gory!
Were wings that bore
To where our comfort was;
Arabesques of candle beams,
Winding
Through our heavy dreams;
Where the bending iris grew;
Singing in the night’s abyss;
That fell
Along the walls
That bordered Hell.
Beautified the simplest men.
Fallen Winkle felt the pride
Of Agamemnon
When he died.
Work and waste
Give him—
To that salty, sacrificial taste?
Sorrow bring—
To that short, triumphant sting?