Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
GriefD. H. Lawrence
T
But oh, the palms of her two black hands are red!
—It is Death I fear so much, it is not the dead—
Not this gray book, but the red and bloody scenes.
The town is like a churchyard, all so still
And gray, now night is here: nor will
Another torn red sunset come to pass.
Feeling the shadows like a blind man reading,
All fearful lest I find some next word bleeding.
—Nay, take my painted missal book away.