Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
SpringMabel Linn
A
Across my book,
And a quavering bird-note,
Call me
To the window;
And there—
Is Spring,
Laughing up the slope
With jonquils
In her hair,
And teasing the thrush
Because his song
Is rusty!