Chink against my ribs
And roll about like silver hail-stones.
I should like to spill them out,
And pour them, all shining,
But my heart is shut upon them
And holds them straitly.
Come, you! and open my heart ;
That my thoughts torment me no longer,
But glitter in your hair.
Published in Some Imagist Poets: An Anthology (1915)
Digitized versions of this publication:
The Modernist Journals Project
HathiTrust Digital Library