 | The Stranger at the Gate |  |
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?
| The Stranger at the Gate | |