 | The Stranger at the Gate |  |
41
PRAIRIE STORM RUNE
I
THE wild bee sips at the heat-drugged lips
Of the passionless lily a-nod;
The sunflowers stare through the hush at the glare
Of the face of their tutelar god, and the hair
Of the gossamer glints in the listless air.
Of the passionless lily a-nod;
The sunflowers stare through the hush at the glare
Of the face of their tutelar god, and the hair
Of the gossamer glints in the listless air.
Ragged and grim on the parched hill-rim,
The cottonwoods sulk in gray:
The guiding word of the plowman is heard
A dream-thralled mile away—half blurred,
Wounding the calm as a blunted sword.
The cottonwoods sulk in gray:
The guiding word of the plowman is heard
A dream-thralled mile away—half blurred,
Wounding the calm as a blunted sword.
Prophecy's minister, dolorous, sinister,
Hark to the raincrow! Incredible story!
For the clouds of fleece like banners in peace
Pine for the winds of glory. Cease,
Chanter of storm in the ancient peace!
Hark to the raincrow! Incredible story!
For the clouds of fleece like banners in peace
Pine for the winds of glory. Cease,
Chanter of storm in the ancient peace!
The sick land lies as a man ere he dies,
Loosing his grip in a hush profound;
Save when the hidden insects scream
In jets of watery sound that seem
Taunts of thirst in a fever dream.
Loosing his grip in a hush profound;
Save when the hidden insects scream
In jets of watery sound that seem
Taunts of thirst in a fever dream.
42
II
What mean yon cries where the flat world dies
In hazy rotundity—
Tumult a-swoon, silence a-croon,
Lapped in profundity—bane or boon
Or only the drone of a fever rune?
In hazy rotundity—
Tumult a-swoon, silence a-croon,
Lapped in profundity—bane or boon
Or only the drone of a fever rune?
No bird sings—but a grasshopper's wings
Snap in the meadow.
On the rim of the hill the cottonwoods spill
Stagnant puddles of shadow; and still—
The air is quick with a subtle thrill!
Snap in the meadow.
On the rim of the hill the cottonwoods spill
Stagnant puddles of shadow; and still—
The air is quick with a subtle thrill!
A cool, fresh puff! The meadows are rough,
The cottonwoods whiten and whisper together!
The plowman at gaze, knee-deep in the maize,
Judges the weather. A plow-horse neighs,
Faint and clear as a horn of the fays.
The cottonwoods whiten and whisper together!
The plowman at gaze, knee-deep in the maize,
Judges the weather. A plow-horse neighs,
Faint and clear as a horn of the fays.
Haunting the distance with taunting insistence,
Fiery portents and mumblings of wonder!
In gardens of gloom, walled steep with doom,
Strange blue buds burst in thunder, and bloom
Dizzily, vividly, gaudily, lividly—
Death-flowers sown in a cannon-gloom!
Fiery portents and mumblings of wonder!
In gardens of gloom, walled steep with doom,
Strange blue buds burst in thunder, and bloom
Dizzily, vividly, gaudily, lividly—
Death-flowers sown in a cannon-gloom!
III
Lo, on a height hewn sheer out of night,
Where Mystery labors,
Through the Hadean heath from an awe beneath,
A sprouting of sabers lean from the sheath!
And bursting the husk of the travailing dusk,
The world-old crop of the dragon's teeth!
Where Mystery labors,
43
A sprouting of sabers lean from the sheath!
And bursting the husk of the travailing dusk,
The world-old crop of the dragon's teeth!
Banners of battle-might, spear-glint and sword-light
Over the dream-vague, frowning battalions!
Hark, the hoarse trumpets bray! Sensing the coming fray,
Wraith-ridden, thunder-hoofed stallions neigh
Terror into the glooming day!
Over the dream-vague, frowning battalions!
Hark, the hoarse trumpets bray! Sensing the coming fray,
Wraith-ridden, thunder-hoofed stallions neigh
Terror into the glooming day!
A death-hush falls. The shadow sprawls
Sick in the failing noon.
The sun flies shorn, aghast, forlorn,
Like a spectral moon surprised at morn.
Deathly green is the meadow-sheen,
Ghastly green the corn.
Sick in the failing noon.
The sun flies shorn, aghast, forlorn,
Like a spectral moon surprised at morn.
Deathly green is the meadow-sheen,
Ghastly green the corn.
IV
Hark—at last—the burst of the blast—
The roar of the charge and howls of defiance!
The cottonwoods, grim on the bleared hill-rim,
Grapple with giants weird and dim—
Titan torses, pedisonant horses—
Gods and demons and seraphim!
The roar of the charge and howls of defiance!
The cottonwoods, grim on the bleared hill-rim,
Grapple with giants weird and dim—
Titan torses, pedisonant horses—
Gods and demons and seraphim!
Bloody light from the sword-slashed night—
Shuddering darkness after!
Terrible feet trample the wheat!
Olympian laughter overhead!
Over the roofs rumble the hoofs,
Over the graves of the dead!
Shuddering darkness after!
Terrible feet trample the wheat!
44
Over the roofs rumble the hoofs,
Over the graves of the dead!
And yet—somewhere through the crystal air
A golden rain is swelling the oats,
And wild doves croon to the splendid noon
Of love too big for their throats; and there
Never the beat of terrible feet—
Somehow, somewhere.
A golden rain is swelling the oats,
And wild doves croon to the splendid noon
Of love too big for their throats; and there
Never the beat of terrible feet—
Somehow, somewhere.
Stark in the rain like a face of the slain
The gray land stares in the fitful light.
Is it a glimmer of some vague story—
The corn's green might, the wheatfield's shimmer,
The sunflower's glory?
The gray land stares in the fitful light.
Is it a glimmer of some vague story—
The corn's green might, the wheatfield's shimmer,
The sunflower's glory?
V
The war wind fails. A gray cloud trails
Over the sodden plain.
Swift and bright, the arrowy light
Smites the rear of the Rain in flight!
And lo, on high, spanning the sky,
The arch of a Victor's might!
Over the sodden plain.
Swift and bright, the arrowy light
Smites the rear of the Rain in flight!
And lo, on high, spanning the sky,
The arch of a Victor's might!
Nothing is heard . . . Hark!—a bird
Calls from a green-gloomed, dripping cover!
Surely wrath rode not in the blast,
But some inscrutable Lover passed,
Aflame with the lust of the Dew for the Dust,
Out of the Vast into the Vast.
Calls from a green-gloomed, dripping cover!
Surely wrath rode not in the blast,
But some inscrutable Lover passed,
Aflame with the lust of the Dew for the Dust,
Out of the Vast into the Vast.
45
The wild bee slips from the housing lips
Of the lily a-nod.
Odors sweet in the humid heat!
A glimmer of God athwart the wheat!
Aglow with prayer, the sunflowers stare
At the face of their Paraclete.
Of the lily a-nod.
Odors sweet in the humid heat!
A glimmer of God athwart the wheat!
Aglow with prayer, the sunflowers stare
At the face of their Paraclete.
| The Stranger at the Gate | |