Harriet Monroe

Harriet Monroe

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Harriet Monroe (December 23, 1860 – September 26, 1936) was an American editor, scholar, literary critic, poet, and patron of the arts. She was the founding publisher and long-time editor of Poetry magazine, first published in 1912.
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The Hotel

The long resounding marble corridors, the shining parlors with shining women in them
The French room, with its gilt and garlands under plump little tumbling painted loves'
The Turkish room, with its jumble of many carpets and its stiffly...
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Here you are, grand old sensualist
And here are the three goddesses displaying their charms to Paris
It was all one to you &mdash goddesses, saints, court ladies &mdash Your world was all curves of flesh rolling curves repeated l...
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The Mockery

Sometimes I laugh—what else can a man do Who does not know
This little ego here Braving the void, this fleck upon the blue,
This filmy wing sounding the starry sphere— What bold abysmal incongruity,
What joke of the gods to make a m...
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The Meeting

The ox-team and the
Stood face to face on the long red road,
The long red road was
At the turn of the hill,
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From the “Commemoration Ode”

EN dreaming kings, at odds with swift paced time, Would strike that banner down,
A nobler knight than ever writ or rhyme With fame’s bright wreath did
Through armed hosts bore it till it floated high Beyond the clouds, a light that canno...
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She is so wee,
So wise and dear Her eyes can see,
Her ears can hear,
The flowers that grow Below the snow,
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The Shadow-Child

Why do the wheels go whirring round,
Mother, mother
Oh, mother, are they giants bound,
And will they growl forever
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Oh, hero of our younger race
Great builder of a temple new
Ruler, who sought no lordly place
Warrior who sheathed the sword he drew
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The Message Of The Wind

The wind comes riding down from heaven
wind of heaven, what do you bring
Cool for the dawn, dew for the even,
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O Love, my love, it's over then—Your heart flies free;
And it's now no more us two again,
The door on you and me
And it's now no more the supper spread,
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In Tuolumne Meadows

I Love to sit in the
And watch the foaming
Leap over its granite bed
I love these days that run On a burnished golden dial With the blue sky overhead
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I See the snow-drops flutter Their white wings in the gale
I hear the robin utter On high his gallant tale
Look where the rash wind chases With clouds the climbing sun
The day makes merry faces— Gaily her gray steeds run
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The Blue Ridge

LL and calm,
In purple robes of kings,
The low-lying mountains sleep at the edge of the world
The forests cover them like mantles;
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These Two

They died these two &mdash The little boys I knew &mdash One at Gallipoli and one in France
Long ago &mdash Oh, twenty years or so &mdash They used to romp and
Over the grass, under the trees
One toddling
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The Garden

Hiding under the hill,
Heavy with trailing robes and tangled veils of green,
Till only its little haggard face was visible,
The garden lay shy and wistful,
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Titanic Requiem

Sleep softly in your ocean bed,
You who could grandly die
Our fathers, who at Shiloh bled,
Accept your company
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