Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

Twenty-four Hokku on a Modern Theme

Amy Lowell

AGAIN the larkspur,

Heavenly blue in my garden.

They, at least, unchanged.

How have I hurt you?

You look at me with pale eyes,

But these are my tears.

Morning and evening—

Yet for us once long ago

Was no division.

I hear many words.

Set an hour when I may come

Or remain silent.

In the ghostly dawn

I write new words for your ears—

Even now you sleep.

This then is morning.

Have you no comfort for me

Cold-colored flowers?

My eyes are weary

Following you everywhere.

Short, oh short, the days!

When the flower falls

The leaf is no more cherished.

Every day I fear.

Even when you smile,

Sorrow is behind your eyes.

Pity me, therefore.

Laugh—it is nothing.

To others you may seem gay,

I watch with grieved eyes.

Take it, this white rose.

Stems of roses do not bleed;

Your fingers are safe.

As a river-wind

Hurling clouds at a bright moon,

So am I to you.

Watching the iris,

The faint and fragile petals—

How am I worthy?

Down a red river

I drift in a broken skiff.

Are you then so brave?

Night lies beside me

Chaste and cold as a sharp sword.

It and I alone.

Last night it rained.

Now, in the desolate dawn,

Crying of blue jays.

Foolish so to grieve,

Autumn has its colored leaves—

But before they turn?

Afterwards I think:

Poppies bloom when it thunders.

Is this not enough?

Love is a game—yes?

I think it is a drowning:

Black willows and stars.

When the aster fades

The creeper flaunts in crimson.

Always another!

Turning from the page,

Blind with a night of labor,

I hear morning crows.

A cloud of lilies,

Or else you walk before me.

Who could see clearly?

Sweet smell of wet flowers

Over an evening garden.

Your portrait, perhaps?

Staying in my room,

I thought of the new spring leaves.

That day was happy.