| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917. |
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| 226. Spoon River Anthology |
| | | Archibald Higbie |
| | | By Edgar Lee Masters |
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| I LOATHED you, Spoon River. I tried to rise above you, | |
| I was ashamed of you. I despised you | |
| As the place of my nativity. | |
| And there in Rome, among the artists, | |
| Speaking Italian, speaking French, | 5 |
| I seemed to myself at times to be free | |
| Of every trace of my origin. | |
| I seemed to be reaching the heights of art | |
| And to breathe the air that the masters breathed, | |
| And to see the world with their eyes. | 10 |
| But still they’d pass my work and say: | |
| “What are you driving at, my friend? | |
| Sometimes the face looks like Apollo’s, | |
| At others it has a trace of Lincoln’s.” | |
| There was no culture, you know, in Spoon River, | 15 |
| And I burned with shame and held my peace. | |
| And what could I do, all covered over | |
| And weighted down with western soil, | |
| Except aspire, and pray for another | |
| Birth in the world, with all of Spoon River | 20 |
| Rooted out of my soul? | |
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