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 | Joaquin, et al. |  |
I stand upon a stony rim.
A rock-lipped cannon plunging south
Yawns deep and darkling at my feet,
So deep, so distant and so dim
Its recess winds, a yellow thread,
And calls so faintly and so far,
I turn aside my swooning head
As from a mighty yawning mouth
Of earth that opens into hell.
I feel a fierce impulse to leap
Adown the beetling precipice
Like some lone, lost, uncertain star—
To plunge into a place unknown
And win a world all, all my own;
Or if I might not meet such bliss,
At least escape the curse of this
A rock-lipped cannon plunging south
Yawns deep and darkling at my feet,
So deep, so distant and so dim
Its recess winds, a yellow thread,
And calls so faintly and so far,
I turn aside my swooning head
As from a mighty yawning mouth
Of earth that opens into hell.
I feel a fierce impulse to leap
Adown the beetling precipice
Like some lone, lost, uncertain star—
To plunge into a place unknown
And win a world all, all my own;
Or if I might not meet such bliss,
At least escape the curse of this
I gaze again. A gleaming star
Shines back as from some mossy well
Reflected from blue fields afar.
Brown hawks are wheeling here and there,
And up and down the broken wall
Cling clumps of dark green chaparral.
While from the rent rocks, gray and bare,
Blue junipers hang in the air.
Then crowding to the yellow stream,
Low cabins nestle as in fear
Among the boulders mossed and brown
That time and storms have tumbled down
From towers undefiled by man,
And look no taller than a span.
From low and shapeless chimneys rise
Some tall straight columns of blue smoke,
And weld them to the bluer skies;
While sounding down the silent gorge,
I hear the steady pick-axe stroke,
As if upon a flashing forge.
Shines back as from some mossy well
Reflected from blue fields afar.
11
And up and down the broken wall
Cling clumps of dark green chaparral.
While from the rent rocks, gray and bare,
Blue junipers hang in the air.
Then crowding to the yellow stream,
Low cabins nestle as in fear
Among the boulders mossed and brown
That time and storms have tumbled down
From towers undefiled by man,
And look no taller than a span.
From low and shapeless chimneys rise
Some tall straight columns of blue smoke,
And weld them to the bluer skies;
While sounding down the silent gorge,
I hear the steady pick-axe stroke,
As if upon a flashing forge.
Another scene, another sound.
Sharp shots are fretting through the air,
Red knives are flashing everywhere,
And here and there the yellow flood
Is purpled with warm smoking blood.
The brown hawk swoops low to the ground,
And nimble chip-munks, small and still,
Dart striped lines across the sill
That lordly feet shall press no more.
The flume lies warping in the sun,
The pan sits empty by the door,
The pick-axe on its bed-rock floor
Lies rusting in the silent mine.
There comes no single sound or sign
Of life, besides yon munks in brown
That dart their dim shapes up and down
The rocks that swelter in the sun;
But darting round yon rocky spur
Where scarce a hawk would dare to whir,
Fly horsemen reckless in their flight.
One wears a flowing black capote,
While down the cape doth flow and float
Long locks of hair as dark as night,
And hands are red that erst were white.
Sharp shots are fretting through the air,
Red knives are flashing everywhere,
And here and there the yellow flood
Is purpled with warm smoking blood.
The brown hawk swoops low to the ground,
And nimble chip-munks, small and still,
12
That lordly feet shall press no more.
The flume lies warping in the sun,
The pan sits empty by the door,
The pick-axe on its bed-rock floor
Lies rusting in the silent mine.
There comes no single sound or sign
Of life, besides yon munks in brown
That dart their dim shapes up and down
The rocks that swelter in the sun;
But darting round yon rocky spur
Where scarce a hawk would dare to whir,
Fly horsemen reckless in their flight.
One wears a flowing black capote,
While down the cape doth flow and float
Long locks of hair as dark as night,
And hands are red that erst were white.
| Joaquin, et al. | |