 | The Stranger at the Gate |  |
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!
| The Stranger at the Gate | |