Page:American Poetry 1922.djvu/24



XI Take it, this white rose. Stems of roses do not bleed; Your fingers are safe.

XII As a river-wind Hurling clouds at a bright moon, So am I to you.

XIII Watching the iris, The faint and fragile petals— How am I worthy?

XIV Down a red river I drift in a broken skiff. Are you then so brave?

XV Night lies beside me Chaste and cold as a sharp sword. It and I alone.

XVI Last night it rained. Now, in the desolate dawn, Crying of blue jays. 10