ISSUE: Autumn 1926
From ebony your hand has carved
A mask for mirth, and you are starved
For fruit that leaves upon the mouth
Not honey-sweetness of the south,
But acid for a tempered taste.
No silken girdle binds your waist,
But crinkled silver, set with green
Cold stones; your searching eyes have seen
Pageant and bravery vanish where
Harsh weather kills a lilac air,
And you seek nourishment among
Black cherries that a wasp has stung.
