Harriet Monroe (23 December 1860 – 26 September 1936 / Chicago, Illinois)
The forest was a shrine for her,
A temple richly dressed;
And worshippers the tall trees were,
Each to his prayer addressed.
Scarce dared I lift my eyes, or stir,
So deeply was I blessed.
She took to herself the waning day
Like a round twilight moon,
Serenely rising far away—
A silvery moon of June,
That whiter than the morning is
And fairer than the noon.
The dim world darkened round her—all
Was night save where she shone,
Save where she stood so slim and small
The shadowed earth upon;
As though the earth were new, and she
Would light its fires anon.
Comments about this poem (After Sunset by Harriet Monroe )
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