| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | Toward Evening | | By Margaret DeLaughter |
| | From “In the Night Watches”
THE POPPIES just outside my door | |
| Still flaunt their crimson loveliness. | |
| How can they blossom any more, | |
| Now I have lost my happiness? | |
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| Not any grief of mine can mar | 5 |
| The beauty of this tranquil weather. | |
| Each evening, with the first pale star, | |
| Comes that same thrush we loved together, | |
| |
| And pours gold notes from every bough | |
| Of his old sacred apple-tree. | 10 |
| But he has lost his magic now— | |
| He cannot sing you back to me. | | | | |
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