| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | To One Who Asks | | By Mary Aldis |
| | | CURIOUS you should not see my feet are weary— | |
| Weary of the way you see so fair— | |
| As wondering you look along each silver path with question | |
| Why I will not tread. | |
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| Curious you should not see my eyes are weary, | 5 |
| Weary of the sorrow and the passion they have seen; | |
| Asking now to close, the last kiss given, | |
| The last word said. | |
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| Curious you should not see my hands are weary, | |
| Weary with their ceaseless fluttering round little things; | 10 |
| Concerned no longer with caresses nor with loving, | |
| Still and uncomforted. | |
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| Your young desire would take away my sorrow, | |
| Do you not see I have but ashes for you? | |
| I would not lay upon your eager breast | 15 |
| My weary head. | |
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| Your feet are hurrying, your soul is hungering— | |
| You of the intent eyes, the questing will. | |
| Why do you ask my two tired, empty hands | |
| To give you bread? | 20 |
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| You will not see my very soul is weary— | |
| I think it died long, long ago, or fled. | |
| Would you ask caresses from a shadow-woman— | |
| Kisses from the dead? | | | | |
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