| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | A Walking Poem | | By Edward Sapir |
| | | I BELIEVE there is moving more than colored jackets | |
| Down the street among the city rackets. | |
| I do not think the sun-rain on the corner wall | |
| Is all. | |
| |
| I cannot think the swirl is much | 5 |
| More than a little touch | |
| Of souls, to steady to an equipoise | |
| Their private thunderings, the subterranean noise. | |
| |
| For I have gathered scowl and elbow-thrust | |
| And glint of pupil of the eye; there must, | 10 |
| I think, be lashing foam in canyons under there, | |
| And this a heavy silence on the little empty air. | |
| |
| I do not think her ankles mincing through, | |
| And round smile, are the flowers that we thought we knew. | |
| Red jacket—stealthy lioness yawning in the wood, | 15 |
| And stealthy passion creeping in the blood. | |
| |
| The sun moves, and the colors of the air. | |
| I think each canyon-river keeps its flowing there | |
| Within the deepest constancy. | |
| Call then the sun and jackets pageantry. | 20 | | | |
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