| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | From a Vineyard | | By H. L. Davis |
| | From “To the River Beach”
THE BUSHES have borne few berries, scarcely a color | |
| That hangs against the rocks and dips when the wind, | |
| Aimed against the low branches, bows them to the root. | |
| Back of this poor river country the grain is housed; | |
| And blackbirds, going to eat a little dropped grain, | 5 |
| Hurry from the cold beaches. What must begin | |
| But thoughts of my friends yonder: of such a life, | |
| And of such a man’s body. One Laura, who is my friend, | |
| Whose throat is round without shadow, and the warmth | |
| Is like fire upon the eyes; Italian woman, dark-haired | 10 |
| Worker in the bearing vines—I envy them | |
| Who know how your breast shaped, who measured you | |
From little to tall woman.
Riding brings me much | |
| Among the dead plants and through the shedding vines: | |
| These lives I know of—the mouths underground, | 15 |
| Roots’ mouths, that since summer are useless, and have died. | |
| So the wild gourds turn yellow upon their black stems, | |
| Drop, and presently that fruit opens to the seed. | |
| |
| Laura, Italian over whose vines the blackbirds fly, | |
| It is longer than this knowledge is old since you came | 20 |
| Through the dead and frosty vineyard to my side. | | | | |
|
|
