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 Fannie Stearns Davis
MY mother died when I was young,
  Yet not too young to know
What terror round the dark halls clung
  That aching day of snow.
I knew she could not comfort me.        5
  I sat there all alone.
Cold sorrow held me quietly
  Dumb as a snow-hid stone.
And yet I seemed to watch it all
  As in a picture-book:        10
The silent people in the hall,
  My father’s frozen look,
The heaped white roses, and my dress
  So very black and new.
I watched it without weariness—        15
  Ah, how the snow-blast blew!
.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .
Tonight you say you love me—me
  Who leap to love you. Lo,
I am all yours so utterly
  You need not speak, nor show        20
One sign, but I shall understand
  Out to our life’s last rim;
Out into death’s uncertain land,
  Gracious be it or grim.
I am all yours. And yet tonight        25
  The old trick haunts me. Look!
I see your face, O new delight,
  As in a picture-book.
Your face, your shape, the fire-lit room,
  The red rose on the shelf;        30
And, leaning to its passionate bloom,
  Troubled with love, myself.
Oh, hold your hand across my eyes—
  They have no right to see!
But now, as then, they are too wise:        35
  They stare—they frighten me!

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