| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | A Letter | | By Harold Holston Wright |
| | From “Days”
YOU smile perhaps when I write “Spring” to you, | |
| Who know so well my window but reveals | |
| A space of factory walls, and smoke-soiled blue— | |
| That square of sky above. But here one feels | |
| April in March, and prescience of the May. | 5 |
| Spring’s not a matter just of birds or trees; | |
| It’s something subtler, unheard, unseen—a way | |
| Joy surges up in every face one sees. | |
| Shut me from sky or light, I’m sure I’d know | |
| The day that Spring first breathed across the snow, | 10 |
| Even as now I sense it everywhere | |
| And find my window’s grimy picture fair. | | | | |
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