Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
The Host of DreamsKatherine Howard
I
With flowers in my hands,
And candles burning at my head
And burning at my feet.
I heard them say that I was dead
But I was fast asleep.
And it was little they knew,
For I was dreaming wonderful
And I was dreaming true.
I was asleep, yet I could hear;
And I was seeing far and clear
As I had not seen before.
And then I rose and went my way—
The Host of Dreams had beckoned me
Out through the open door.
The straight white one was lying there
With flowers in its hands;
The candles were burnt low.
I laughed a little because
They did not see me go.