Page:American Poetry 1922.djvu/24

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Amy Lowell



XI


Take it, this white rose.
Stems of roses do not bleed;
Your fingers are safe.

XII


As a river-wind
Hurling clouds at a bright moon,
So am I to you.

XIII


Watching the iris,
The faint and fragile petals—
How am I worthy?

XIV


Down a red river
I drift in a broken skiff.
Are you then so brave?

XV


Night lies beside me
Chaste and cold as a sharp sword.
It and I alone.

XVI


Last night it rained.
Now, in the desolate dawn,
Crying of blue jays.

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