| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | The Mad Woman | | By Scharmel Iris |
| | From “Lyrics”
OH blame me not that his lips were red, | |
| Or that my eyes on his eyes went blind, | |
| A leaf am I in a ruthless wind— | |
| I’ll dig me a grave and rest me, dead. | |
| |
| Wolf-winds, a pack, | 5 |
| I dragged by the back | |
| And loosened them at his door. | |
| Asp of despair, | |
| Crawl into his lair | |
| And eat his heart to the core. | 10 |
| |
| For the baby he gave to me | |
| The moon fell into the sea. | |
| The white leopards of foam | |
| Said, “Carry it home!” | |
| So I put it into a sack, | 15 |
| And carried it home on my back. | |
| |
| I lit the lantern of the sun, | |
| And stole the blue cloth of the sky— | |
| A cover for my little one. | |
| I made his crib. Is that his cry? | 20 |
| Let me run, let me run, | |
| My eyes grow sad for my son. | |
| |
| Spear of the world’s scorn in my side, | |
| The grave is deep where a maid may bide, | |
| Ever and ever satisfied. | 25 | | | |
|
|
