| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | Plums | | By P. T. R. |
| | | IT is a waste of time to talk to my cousin about his plums, | |
| Though I know— | |
| standing on the path with the sun in my hair | |
| I make a sufficiently pleasing picture. | |
| The plums are soft with bloom, and luscious purple— | 5 |
| If I took a step forward and held out my green smock, | |
| Looked up and laughed at him, | |
| He would throw them, showering rain-drops, into my lap, | |
| And, quickly descending, | |
| Slide his arm round my waist and—probably—kiss me. | 10 |
| Shall I go, I wonder?— | |
| No, I will have none of these things. | | | | |
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