Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
Praise for HimEunice Tietjens
A
Shall I not take my pleasure in the line
Of your clean chiseled nostril, and the fine
Crisp curve your hair makes on your forehead? Men
Are plenty who are dull and dutiful.
I owe you thanks that you are beautiful.
That with the swiftness of a flight of birds
Rises the covey of your colored words,
Where is the song shall praise you overmuch?
I hold no brief for pious lividness;
I thank you for your spirit’s vividness.
At least admit it as a way men speak.”—
Your soul then, lonely as a mountain peak
And naked as a fawn, if it can lapse
Sheer outward from the rim of things I see,
Well! Still I’m thankful for your liberty.