Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
Your WordsAthena McFadden
God gave you words, so you must give them to me.
Let me lie here on the ground
Breaking brittle pine-needles with my fingers.
You have no right to keep a gift—
God gave you words, so you must give them to me.
They are birds with full smooth breasts.
That fly in wide clean skies
And sleep in warm brown nests.
Of glass, or ruby-flake;
They tinkle in the air
And whisper as they break.
With silver shining sails,
That sing against the winds
Like purple nightingales.
In crystal jars, and tall.
You break them with your lips;
I catch them as they fall.
Cool fingers through my hair.
There is no world but me, no heaven but you …
Somewhere outside of these there may be birds,
And fruit, and ships, and little crystal globes.