Verse > Anthologies > Harriet Monroe, ed. > Poetry: A Magazine of Verse, 1912–22
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Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936).  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse.  1912–22.
 
Twenty-four Hokku on a Modern Theme
By Amy Lowell
 
I
AGAIN the larkspur,
Heavenly blue in my garden.
They, at least, unchanged.
 
II
How have I hurt you?
You look at me with pale eyes,        5
But these are my tears.
 
III
Morning and evening—
Yet for us once long ago
Was no division.
 
IV
I hear many words.
        10
Set an hour when I may come
Or remain silent.
 
V
In the ghostly dawn
I write new words for your ears—
Even now you sleep.        15
 
VI
This then is morning.
Have you no comfort for me
Cold-colored flowers?
 
VII
My eyes are weary
Following you everywhere.        20
Short, oh short, the days!
 
VIII
When the flower falls
The leaf is no more cherished.
Every day I fear.
 
IX
Even when you smile,
        25
Sorrow is behind your eyes.
Pity me, therefore.
 
X
Laugh—it is nothing.
To others you may seem gay,
I watch with grieved eyes.        30
 
XI
Take it, this white rose.
Stems of roses do not bleed;
Your fingers are safe.
 
XII
As a river-wind
Hurling clouds at a bright moon,        35
So am I to you.
 
XIII
Watching the iris,
The faint and fragile petals—
How am I worthy?
 
XIV
Down a red river
        40
I drift in a broken skiff.
Are you then so brave?
 
XV
Night lies beside me
Chaste and cold as a sharp sword.
It and I alone.        45
 
XVI
Last night it rained.
Now, in the desolate dawn,
Crying of blue jays.
 
XVII
Foolish so to grieve,
Autumn has its colored leaves—        50
But before they turn?
 
XVIII
Afterwards I think:
Poppies bloom when it thunders.
Is this not enough?
 
XIX
Love is a game—yes?
        55
I think it is a drowning:
Black willows and stars.
 
XX
When the aster fades
The creeper flaunts in crimson.
Always another!        60
 
XXI
Turning from the page,
Blind with a night of labor,
I hear morning crows.
 
XXII
A cloud of lilies,
Or else you walk before me.        65
Who could see clearly?
 
XXIII
Sweet smell of wet flowers
Over an evening garden.
Your portrait, perhaps?
 
XXIV
Staying in my room,
        70
I thought of the new spring leaves.
That day was happy.
 
 
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