ISSUE: Autumn 1927
What precious thing in that unholy town,
So called you that you could not save yourself;
Silver or gold, a jewel or a gown,
Or something hidden on the highest shelf?
Or was the gay, defenceless garden, there
Under your window, and the almond tree;
Lilacs and lilies, roses of your care—
Too dear a price for your security?
Perhaps it was the lad with sunny locks—
There was no hiding place upon the plain—
The little watchman of your husband’s flocks,
But one more lamb beneath the awful rain.
Did you divine what homesick years would creep
And choose to fall from terror into sleep?
