dots-menu
×

Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Little Book of Modern Verse. 1917.

Trumbull Stickney

Once

THAT day her eyes were deep as night.

She had the motion of the rose,

The bird that veers across the light,

The waterfall that leaps and throws

Its irised spindrift to the sun.

She seemed a wind of music passing on.

Alone I saw her that one day

Stand in the window of my life.

Her sudden hand melted away

Under my lips, and without strife

I held her in my arms awhile

And drew into my lips her living smile,—

Now many a day ago and year!

Since when I dream and lie awake

In summer nights to feel her near,

And from the heavy darkness break

Glitters, till all my spirit swims

And her hand hovers on my shaking limbs.

If once again before I die

I drank the laughter of her mouth

And quenched my fever utterly,

I say, and should it cost my youth,

’T were well! for I no more should wait

Hammering midnight on the doors of fate.