Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

I am Weary of Being Bitter

I AM weary of being bitter and weary of being wise,

And the armor and the mask of these fall from me, after long.

I would go where the islands sleep, or where the sea-dawns rise,

And lose my bitter wisdom in the wisdom of a song.

There are magics in melodies, unknown of the sages;

The powers of purest wonder on secret wings go by.

Doubtless out of the silence of dumb preceding ages

Song woke the chaos-world—and light swept the sky.

All that we know is idle; idle is all we cherish;

Idle the will that takes loads that proclaim it strong.

For the knowledge, the strength, the burden—all shall perish:

One thing only endures, one thing only—song.