Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/131

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Thalia knows how rare a thingIs it, to grow old and sing.When the brown and tepid tideCloses in on every side;Who shall say if Shelley's goldHad withered it to grow old?
The New RepublicEdna St. Vincent Millay


SONNET
I see so clearly now my similar years Renew each other, shod in rusty black, Like one hack following another hack In meaningless procession, dry of tearsDriven empty, lest the noses, sharp as shears, Of gutter urchins at a hearse's back Should sniff a man died friendless, and attack With silly scorn his deaf, triumphant ears—
I see so clearly how my life must run, One year behind another year, until At length these bones that leap into the sunAre lowered into the gravel and lie still, I would at times the funeral were done And I abandoned on the ultimate hill.
The CenturyEdna St. Vincent Millay


KEATS
(1821—1921)
When sometimes, on a moony night, I've passed A street-lamp, seen my doubled shadow flee,I've noticed how much darker, clearer cast, The full moon poured her silhouette of me.

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