  NEW YORK FOR BRYHER AND PERDITA They said: she is high and far and blind in her high pride, but now that my head is bowed in sorrow, I find she is most kind. We have taken life, they said, blithely, not groped in a mist for things that are not— are if you will, but bloodless— why ask happiness of the dead? and my heart bled. Ah, could they know how violets throw strange fire, red and purple and gold, how they glow gold and purple and red where her feet tread. Acknowledgements are due to the editors of the following periodicals in which certain of these poems have appeared: Poetry (Chicago), The Dial, Contact and The Bookman (New York), The Nation, The Sphere, The Anglo-French Review and The Egoist (London). |
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