Part 11

The Rattlesnake

Coiled like a clod, his eyes the home of hate, Where rich the harvest bows, he lies in wait, Linking earth's death and music, mate with mate.

Is 't lure, or warning? Those small bells may sing Like Ariel sirens, poised on viewless wing, To lead stark life where mailed death is king;

Else nature's voice, in that cold, earthy thrill, Bids good avoid the venomed fang of ill, And life and death fight equal in her will.

The Prisoner

From pacing, pacing without hope or quest He leaned against his window-bars to rest And smelt the breeze that crept up from the west.

It came with sundown noises from the moors, Of milking time and loud-voiced rural chores, Of lumbering wagons and of closing doors.

He caught a whiff of furrowed upland sweet, And certain scents stole up across the street That told him fireflies winked among the wheat.

Over the dusk hill woke a new moon's light, Shadowed the woods and made the waters white, And watched above the quiet tents of night.

Alas, that the old Mother should not know How ached his heart to be entreated so, Who heard her calling and who could not go!

Sonnet

To-day was but a dead day in my hands. Hour by hour did nothing more than pass, Mere idle winds above the faded grass. And I, as though a captive held in bands, Who, seeing a pageant, wonders much, but stands Apart, saw the sun blaze his course with brass And sink into his fabled sea of glass With glory of farewell to many lands.

Thou knowest, thou who talliest life by days, That I have suffered more than pain of toil, Ah, more than they whose wounds are soothed with oil, And they who see new light on beaten ways! The prisoner I, who grasps his iron bars And stares out into depth on depth of stars!

Folk Song

When merry milkmaids to their cattle call At evenfall And voices range Loud through the gloam from grange to quiet grange,

Wild waif-songs from long distant lands and loves, Like migrant doves, Wake and give wing To passion dust-dumb lips were wont to sing.

The new still holds the old moon in her arms; The ancient charms Of dew and dusk Still lure her nomad odors from the musk,

And, at each day's millennial eclipse, On new men's lips, Some old song starts, Made of the music of millennial hearts,

Whereto one listens as from long ago And learns to know That one day's tears And love and life are as a thousand years',

And that some simple shepherd, singing of His pain and love, May haply find His heart-song speaks the heart of all his kind.

"97": The Fast Mail

Where the rails converge to the station yard She stands one moment, breathing hard,

And then, with a snort and a clang of steel, She settles her strength to the stubborn wheel,

And out, through the tracks that lead astray, Cautiously, slowly she picks her way,

And gathers her muscle and guards her nerve, When she swings her nose to the westward curve,

And takes the grade, which slopes to the sky, With a bound of speed and a conquering cry.

The hazy horizon is all she sees, Nor cares for the meadows, stirred with bees,

Nor the long, straight stretches of silent land, Nor the ploughman, that shades his eye with his hand,