| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | Pomegranates | | By Dean B. Lyman, Jr. |
| | | CRIMSON as ever skin pomegranate wore, | |
| When timid love first entered in, Eleanore, | |
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| Were those soft, blushing cheeks of thine that flush no more— | |
| Alas!—since they no more are mine, Eleanore. | |
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| White as the gleaming seeds within the cloven core | 5 |
| Were thy soft hands, so fair to win, Eleanore, | |
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| Which now withhold their benison and blessing, nor | |
| Reach out in love to anyone, Eleanore. | |
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| Gold as the gold upon the stem, or louis d’or— | |
| Thy locks were like the glint of them, Eleanore. | 10 |
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| Sharper and sweeter were the lips I hungered for | |
| Than is the juicy fruit that drips, Eleanore. | |
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| Scarlet and rich, red as a rose, forevermore | |
| I think of lips … another knows, Eleanore? | |
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| Ah, no! I’ll not think that of thee. I set more store | 15 |
| Upon an unchanged memory, Eleanore. | |
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| Ripe was the scarlet fruit that fell. The branch that bore | |
| Must wait for winter snows. Ah, well, Eleanore, | |
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| Perhaps the spring will come again, but nevermore | |
| The branch will bear what blossomed then, Eleanore. | 20 |
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| That first, full love that ripened red, although we pour | |
| Upon it all the tears we shed, Eleanore, | |
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| Will never grow again. Alas! All that is o’er, | |
| With only grief that it should pass, Eleanore. | |
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| Crimson as ever fruit that grew and branches bore | 25 |
| Will be the love (not like we knew), Eleanore, | |
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| Which spring will yet bring forth for me; but that’s no score | |
| Whereon my heart can happy be, Eleanore. | |
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| Fair was the fruit I gathered first: now, as before, | |
| That seems the best—and worst, Eleanore! | 30 | | | |
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