| Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Little Book of Modern Verse. 1917. |
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| 42. Be Still. The Hanging Gardens Were a Dream |
| | | By Trumbull Stickney |
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| BE still. The Hanging Gardens were a dream | |
| That over Persian roses flew to kiss | |
| The curlèd lashes of Semiramis. | |
| Troy never was, nor green Skamander stream. | |
| Provence and Troubadour are merest lies, | 5 |
| The glorious hair of Venice was a beam | |
| Made within Titian’s eye. The sunsets seem, | |
| The world is very old and nothing is. | |
| Be still. Thou foolish thing, thou canst not wake, | |
| Nor thy tears wedge thy soldered lids apart, | 10 |
| But patter in the darkness of thy heart. | |
| Thy brain is plagued. Thou art a frighted owl | |
| Blind with the light of life thou’ldst not forsake, | |
| And Error loves and nourishes thy soul. | |
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