Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
The White MothRosamond Langbridge
E
At my windy, when
I quench the light
Between nine an’ ten,
Soars through the trees,
Light as the froth
Blown off of the seas.
It flutters, white
In the scented lime—
Every night.
When I draw the blind,
As if the hair riz
Straight off me mind.
Just to the minute?—
As if it heard some
Clock strikin’ in it.
Of some Mighty One,
Come for to tell
Of some thing I done!
I done him some hurt,
When I whipped from his line
Quilty’s white shirt.
But the spell would break
If I took it back
As a little mistake.
To a bit of light froth:
Maybe ’twould be better
To crush the White Moth!