| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | Brick-dust | | By Louise Brooke |
| | | IT’S just a heap of ruin, | |
| A drunken brick carouse— | |
| This thing my spirit grew in | |
| That once was called a house. | |
| |
| An attic where I scribbled | 5 |
| Through baking summer days, | |
| While street-pianos nibbled | |
| At the patient Marseillaise. | |
| |
| The spider-landlord squatted | |
| In a web of dinner-smells, | 10 |
| And people slowly rotted | |
| In little gossip-hells. | |
| |
| I hated all I learned there— | |
| And yet I could have cried | |
| For a little oil I burned there, | 15 |
| A little dream that died. | | | | |
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