Verse > Anthologies > Harriet Monroe, ed. > Poetry: A Magazine of Verse, 1912–22
Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936).  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse.  1912–22.
By Flora Shufelt Rivola
I SIT in the shade of a tree and sing
Unto this wee, mysterious thing
Upon my breast—my own, and yet
How could I more than I beget?
At the feather-touch of searching lips.        5
Of tiny, groping finger-tips,
I know the surge of something more,
Deeper within than lived before;
As though, when this was come to birth,
A largess, more of heaven than earth,        10
Enriched my spirit, making me
A part of all Infinity.
I am akin to this old tree,
Yet of a richer destiny:
Its shining leaves sing in the sun        15
As I unto my little one;
We share creation’s leap and thrill,
Yet hold I something stranger still.
What is this flaming tenderness?
What summons me to this caress?        20
O Power that gave, make my love strong!
The sleeper stirs; again my song
Stills him to dreaming—dreams of what?—
Things I knew once and have forgot?
Akin to all these growing things        25
My eager spirit sunward springs;
And deep I sink my roots, and deeper,
With each soft breath of the wee sleeper!

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