Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
At the Top of the WorldElsie A. Gidlow
C
O Mine, before the years spill
All our love into Time’s cup
And give our will to Time’s will.
My moon is lighted with new fire.
I have lit every sun in the firmament
With the hurting flame of my desire.
Die—to forget death;
But here at the top of the world
I laugh under my breath.
And tears, terrible tears;
But the joys have warm mouths, and the madnesses
Dance downward with the years.
O Mine! The valley is deep;
The valley is over-full with the dying,
And with those that sleep;
And the pines sing—one song.
Come to me at the top of the world,
Come quickly—I have waited too long.