Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
Little Lonesome SoulFrances Shaw
Through the pure ether
And the heavenly air,
A little wandering Soul
Seeks everywhere its mother.
The moon thy pretty boat shall be;
The sun himself thy horse is he.
Angels will guide thee in thy flight
Straight to the gates of golden light.
Why dost thou hide thee in the night?
And the heavenly air
A little lonesome Soul
Seeks everywhere its mother.
It fears the harp the angel brings,
Nor knows the song the angel sings.
It only wants, if it should cry,
To feel its mother’s hand close by,
To hear its mother’s lullaby.
And the heavenly air
A little lonesome Soul
Seeks everywhere its mother.