Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
After StormLola Ridge
W
Tap …. tap …
Night pads upon the snow
With moccasined feet,
And it is still …. so still …
An eagle’s feather
Might fall like a stone.
Mad-tossing golden mane
on the neck of the wind—
Tearing up the sky,
loose-flapping like a tent
about the ice-capped stars?
The frosted pines
Are jewelled with a million flaming points,
That fling their beauty up in long white sheaves
Till they catch hands with stars.
Could there have been a wind
That haled them by the hair,
And blinding
Blue-forked
Flowers of the lightning
In their leaves?
Slow-ticking centuries …
Soft as bare feet upon the snow …
Faint …. lulling as heard rain
upon heaped leaves …
So silence builds her wall
about a dream impaled.