| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917. |
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| 12. Barberries |
| | | By Mary Aldis |
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| YOU say I touch the barberries | |
| As a lover his mistress? | |
| What a curious fancy! | |
| One must be delicate, you know— | |
| They have bitter thorns. | 5 |
| You say my hand is hurt? | |
| Oh no, it was my breast, | |
| It was crushed and pressed. | |
| I mean—why yes, of course, of course— | |
| There is a bright drop—isn’t there?— | 10 |
| Right on my finger; | |
| Just the color of a barberry, | |
| But it comes from my heart. | |
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| Do you love barberries? | |
| In the autumn | 15 |
| When the sun’s desire | |
| Touches them to a glory of crimson and gold? | |
| I love them best then. | |
| There is something splendid about them: | |
| They are not afraid | 20 |
| Of being warm and glad and bold; | |
| They flush joyously, | |
| Like a cheek under a lover’s kiss; | |
| They bleed cruelly | |
| Like a dagger wound in the breast; | 25 |
| They flame up madly for their little hour, | |
| Knowing they must die. | |
| Do you love barberries? | |
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