| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | Island Song | | By Robert Paine Scripps |
| | | LOOK you—the flesh, how it has fallen away, | |
| And that dear beauty of my youth! The lips | |
| You loved to press—they are grown cold enough | |
| With years; and this poor heart that beat so high— | |
| God!—it is like a stone within my breast. | 5 |
| I will sit down where the old women sit | |
| And pound the Awa with these withered hands. | |
| I will chew beetle till my teeth are black— | |
| That were like little pearls, you said—and spit | |
| With them. My tongue shall be a wagging tongue | 10 |
| For old wives’ tales, and I shall learn to laugh | |
| At the low things they whisper, leering still | |
| Half foolishly, scratching their shrivelled thighs, | |
| And trying to recall passion that’s dead— | |
Oh, many a weary day.
So our lives run | 15 |
| When that first stroke is spent that drove the barque | |
| Against an ebbing tide. We drift, we fade | |
| Like Kepi blossoms drooping in the sun, | |
| That the night knew for fragrance. | | | | |
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