Harriet Monroe

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

Harriet Monroe Poems

1. With A Copy Of Shelley 2/17/2015
2. Maternity 4/16/2010
3. Quatrains 4/16/2010
4. The Garden 4/16/2010
5. The Meeting 4/16/2010
6. Rubens 4/16/2010
7. Sierran Song 4/16/2010
8. March 4/16/2010
9. New-Born 4/16/2010
10. The Peacemaker 4/16/2010
11. The River Kern 4/16/2010
12. Lullaby 4/16/2010
13. On The Porch 4/16/2010
14. The Giant Cactus Of Arizona 4/16/2010
15. The Legend Of A Pass Christian 4/16/2010
16. The Model 4/16/2010
17. Wings 4/16/2010
18. The Hotel 4/16/2010
19. The Pine At Timber-Line 4/16/2010
20. The Tower 4/16/2010
21. Melodies 4/16/2010
22. Why Not? 4/16/2010
23. Washington 4/16/2010
24. The Childless Woman 4/16/2010
25. Night In State Street 4/16/2010
26. The Blue Ridge 4/16/2010
27. The Sage 4/16/2010
28. The Woman 4/16/2010
29. Winter 4/16/2010
30. The Princess And The Page 4/16/2010
31. The Fortunate One 4/16/2010
32. Pain 4/16/2010
33. The Humming-Bird 4/16/2010
34. The Turbine 4/16/2010
35. In Tuolumne Meadows 4/16/2010
36. To Idleness 4/16/2010
37. The Inner Silence 4/16/2010
38. Two Capitals—1910 4/16/2010
39. Titanic Requiem 4/16/2010
40. The Mockery 4/16/2010
Best Poem of Harriet Monroe

In The Beginning

WHEN sunshine met the wave,
Then love was born;
Then Venus rose to save
A world forlorn.

For light a thousand wings
Of joy unfurled,
And bound with golden rings
The icy world.

And color flamed the earth
With glad desire,
Till life sprang to the birth,
Fire answering fire,

And so the world awoke,
And all was done,
When first the ocean spoke
Unto the sun.

Read the full of In The Beginning

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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