Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
The MarvelGeorge ONeil
From “Wings of Spring”
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I saw her go the first spring dawn.
The thrushes came while she was there
And sang when she had gone.
Had crept into the apple row.
“The hill,” I said, “will soon be white
With April apple snow.”
Why thrushes sang where she went by—
Yet on the day that she returned
The leaves began to die.