Harriet Monroe

(23 December 1860 – 26 September 1936 / Chicago, Illinois)

Harriet Monroe Poems

1. The Water Ouzel 1/4/2003
2. A Letter From Peking 4/16/2010
3. A Play Festival In Ogden Park 4/16/2010
4. Ære Perennius 4/16/2010
5. At The Ship’s Rail 4/16/2010
6. From The Commemoration Ode 4/16/2010
7. In Tuolumne Meadows 4/16/2010
8. Lullaby 4/16/2010
9. March 4/16/2010
10. Maternity 4/16/2010
11. Melodies 4/16/2010
12. Mountain Song 4/16/2010
13. New-Born 4/16/2010
14. Quatrains 4/16/2010
15. Rubens 4/16/2010
16. Sierran Song 4/16/2010
17. The Humming-Bird 4/16/2010
18. The Inner Silence 4/16/2010
19. The Legend Of A Pass Christian 4/16/2010
20. The Meeting 4/16/2010
21. The Garden 4/16/2010
22. The Giant Cactus Of Arizona 4/16/2010
23. The Model 4/16/2010
24. The Peacemaker 4/16/2010
25. The Pine At Timber-Line 4/16/2010
26. The River Kern 4/16/2010
27. The Sage 4/16/2010
28. The Temple Of Vishnu 4/16/2010
29. The Tower 4/16/2010
30. The Turbine 4/16/2010
31. Washington 4/16/2010
32. Why Not? 4/16/2010
33. Wings 4/16/2010
34. Titanic Requiem 4/16/2010
35. To Idleness 4/16/2010
36. Winter 4/16/2010
37. The Wonder Of It 4/16/2010
38. The Princess And The Page 4/16/2010
39. The Hotel 4/16/2010
40. The Blue Ridge 4/16/2010
Best Poem of Harriet Monroe

The Message Of The Wind

The wind comes riding down from heaven.
Ho! wind of heaven, what do you bring?
Cool for the dawn, dew for the even,
And every sweetest thing.
O wind of heaven, from pink clouds driven,
What do you bring to me?
The low call of thy love who waits
Under the willow tree,
Whose boat upon the water waits
For me, for thee.

Read the full of The Message Of The Wind

The Water Ouzel

Little brown surf-bather of the mountains!
Spirit of foam, lover of cataracts, shaking your wings in falling waters!
Have you no fear of the roar and rush when Nevada plunges --
Nevada, the shapely dancer, feeling her way with slim white fingers?
How dare you dash at Yosemite the mighty --
Tall, white limbed Yosemite, leaping down, down over the cliff?
Is it not enough to lean on the blue air of mountains?
Is it not enough to rest with your mate at timberline, in bushes that hug

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