| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | Dog-fennel | | By H. L. Davis |
| | | TODAY burn tree-prunings. Dead branches are cut and piled | |
| And the soft-stemmed grass broken and raked to kindle them. | |
| Rain beats a little light dust up from the sand. | |
| This is the time when birds come to pick the grass-seed | |
| Exposed, white on the ground sweetened with dead roots | 5 |
| Grown since you marked the scoured furrows with your name. | |
| You made prints of your breasts here when you were lately grown, | |
| But they are beaten out; and all the dog-fennel | |
| Is burned, that stung your eyes with its white bitter dust. | |
| O dead sister, your pride keeps seasons like the birds. | 10 | | | |
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