| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | The Seed-shop | | By Muriel Stuart |
| | | HERE in a quiet and dusty room they lie, | |
| Faded as crumbled stone and shifting sand, | |
| Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry— | |
| Meadows and gardens running through my hand. | |
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| Dead that shall quicken at the voice of spring, | 5 |
| Sleepers to wake beneath June’s tempest kiss; | |
| Though birds pass over, unremembering, | |
| And no bee find here roses that were his. | |
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| In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams; | |
| A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust | 10 |
| That shall drink deeply at a century’s streams; | |
| These lilies shall make summer on my dust. | |
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| Here in their safe and simple house of death, | |
| Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap; | |
| Here I can stir a garden with my breath, | 15 |
| And in my hand a forest lies asleep. | | | | |
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