Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
NocturneJohn V. A. Weaver
“N
You says, and hides your face down on my arm.
“If it meant nothin’, ’twouldn’t do no harm,
Or either everythin’—but this way—see?….”
An’ the big arc-light moon grins down so cool,
“Go on!” I think it says, “you softie fool!”….
I love you so it hurts me in my throat….
You’re pleadin’, “An’ we gone too far for play;
I care a lot …. but yet not so’s to say
I love you yet…. Aw, help me to be good!”….
Nothin’ to you, an’ everythin’ to me?