Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
In AbsenceMoireen Fox
Cover with leaves thy deep snow-laden boughs
That swiftly may sweet crimson berries ripen.
And thy bare branches are held blood-red to the skies,
He will kiss grief and longing away from my heart.
The sea trembles unveiling itself to the day.
Why comest thou not? Why must I wait for thee?
Is thy breath unhastened, thy brow dry and untortured?
Dost thou rather seek the me in dreams than here on my breast?
So great an anguish is my longing that sight fails;
My limbs shudder with the bitterness of my desire.
If thou hastenest not death were easier to me than this.
And my body is lying still in some quiet place
And thou art weeping for me.
But I am one of the driven tormented dead
Whom the cold darkness sunders for ever from rest,
And this that consumes my heart is the pain of hell.
Faintly the sound of thy voice and thy laughter lingers about me,
Yet ever thy face is a star burning unquenched through my darkness.
Only I hear the sound of great seas long since overpassed me.
Sleep with even thy face covered away and forgotten
Lost in a sleep unbroken by dreams or love or awakening.