| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | Iron Wine | | By Lola Ridge |
| | From “Chromatics”
THE ORE in the crucible is pungent, smelling like acrid wine. | |
| It is dusky red like the ebb of poppies, | |
| And purple like the blood of elderberries. | |
| Surely it is a strong wine—juice distilled of the fierce iron. | |
| I am drunk of its fumes; | 5 |
| I feel its fiery flux | |
| Diffusing, permeating, | |
| Working some strange alchemy … | |
| So that I turn aside from the goodly board, | |
| So that I look askance upon the common cup, | 10 |
| And from the mouths of crucibles | |
| Suck forth the acrid sap. | | | | |
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