Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
CreedsJohn H. Gavin
Along straight narrow lines
And call them—Creeds.
Upon the rough high walls
And call them—Truth.
On those distorted shapes
And call them—Beauty.
Within those rough high walls
And call it—Right.
Fearful lest they scale the rough high walls
And be free.
Fearful lest they see the mysterious world
And be wise.
Fearful lest they hear
Enthralling music calling them beyond
And go.
Between those rough high walls,
Those grotesque walls, those queer-decked walls,
And call themselves saved.
But, friend, weep not my lot;
For I was born of sun and earth,
And the stars are relatives of mine.
And the sea is a sister of mine.
And the lamb is a cousin of mine.
Part of me is blood of the dove.
The blood of the lark flows through my veins,
And the venomous blood of the snake.
The columbine, aster and rose.
And the violet suckles her.
And the poppy grows red at her breast.
Save men, my most beloved fools!
Manacle my mind!
No rough high walls, no queer-decked walls.