| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | City Wed | | By Loureine Aber |
| | From “City Lanes” | | The dawn comes to me sweetly, as a soft new child |
| Leans with its soul to drain a bit of milk. |
| And I am new. |
| O gray old city, |
| Lift your head a moment from the pots and streets— |
| Wash over me your meaning as a flask of fire |
| Tipped and spilled over at the altar’s base. |
| |
| There are new augurings that go in blue-gray smoke |
| Up from your shops, |
| New lips that rain a torrent in me as of words. |
| Be still a moment, city, while the dawn tells tales. |
I LIE by the bricks at night— | |
| Do you think I am lying by you, | |
| And this is your breast I lean against? | |
| No. Bricks are my lord— | |
| With them I shall procreate, | 5 |
| Until I wake some morning with my litter of stone. | |
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| Not that I want to lie with bricks, | |
| O beloved of the white limbs and strong neck! | |
| But how can I help it when they come tumbling— | |
| These bricks that come fumbling | 10 |
| At my breast? | | | | |
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