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Home  »  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse  »  Eunice Tietjens

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

The Tepid Hour

Eunice Tietjens

From “Facets”

IN such a tepid night as this

Strange formless sorrowings lie hid,

Like melancholy in a kiss,

Like what we dreamed in what we did—

In such a tepid night as this.

From out some shadowy depths of me

Vague longings struggle, dreamer-wise.

They stir and moan uneasily,

Then sleep again, too weak to rise

From out those shadowy depths of me.

Life holds me by so frail a thread

That scarce I feel the drag of it.

Alive I seem, and yet half dead.

But quick or dead I care no whit,

Life holds me by so frail a thread.

I would not snap the thread, and yet

Light as it is I grudge its hold.

’Twere broken with no more regret

Than lingers round a love grown old.

I would not snap the thread, and yet…..