SMOKE FROM THIS ALTAR
Louis L'Amour
A Bantam Book December 1990
The Louis L Amour Collection I March
Many of these poems previously appeared in Shards, Versecraft, Kaleidograph, Tanager,
Prairie Winds, The Bard, Expression, Arrow, Southernesque, Embryo, and Don't Worry.
Some were reprinted in North Dakota Singing, the Oklahoma Poetry Society Anthology,
and Moon In The Steeple. To the editors of these publications I wish to extend grateful
acknowledgment.
All rights reserved.
This edition copyright © 1990 Louis D. and Katherine E. L Amour 1981 Trust.
Book designed by Renee Gelman
No part of this book may he reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information
storage and retrieval system, without permission in
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If you want to purchase more of these titles, please write to: The Louis L Amour
Collection
1540 Broadway New York, NY 10036
ISBN O-553-O632O-O Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada
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2468 10 9753
1
To Singapore Charlie,
who couldn't read
2
3
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
From The Original Edition
Louis L'Amour, adventurer, soldier of fortune, and writer, was torn in Jamestown,
North Dakota, on the 22nd of March, 1908. Fifteen years later he began the wanderings
that were to lead him into many of the strange and remote quarters of the globe.
Drifting from port to port, and from country to country, he was variously occupied
as seaman, miner, lumberjack, deep- sea diver, prizefighter, side-show barker, actor,
reporter, and editor.
It was during those years that the material for these poems accumulated, as the titles
of many of them will indicate. They were years that found him wandering in Japan,
China, Borneo, Java, Sumatra, New Guinea, the Straits Settlements, India, Arabia,
Egypt, and along the coasts of South and Central America. These are the memories
and intimate glimpses of an interested observer.
Mr. L'Amour's short stories, articles, and poetry, have appeared in many national
magazines. His first novel is now in the hands of a publisher.
4
 CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION by Kathy L'Amour xi
Out of the Ocean Depths Soundlessly Moving 1
Smoke From This Altar 3
Interlude: Hongkong Harbor 4
Words From a Wanderer 5
To Cleone: In Budapest 6
I'm a Stranger Here 7
Without This Land 8
Life 10
Biography in Stone 11
An Ember In The Dark 19
Nocturne 20
Wings Over Waves 21
A Handful of Stars 22
Winter 23
Secret Pass 24
Banked Fires 25
North Cape 26
To You, Jeannine 28
Decadence 29
Love Out of Season 30
After Tomorrow 31
Yacodhapura 32
Steppe 33
To Giordano Bruno 34
The Weary One 36
Hildebrand 37
Enchanted Mesas 38
My Three Friends 40
In An Old Temple 42
ix
5
 The Sea, Off Vanua Levu 43
If There Is Beauty 44
Ship Across The Sky 45
McVey 46
I Came To Create 47
Lines To a Season 48
I Shall Go Back 49
NEWLY COLLECTED POEMS 51
I Haven't Read Gone With The Wind 53
In Protest 56
Question 57
A Wail From a Pulpeteer 58
Old Jerry 60
Picture 61
Call Of The Tropics 62
The Gladiator 63
The Pioneer 64
Tranquillity 65
Twilight 66
Forest People 67
Winter Winds 68
Let It Snow 69
Then Came Spring 70
Rain 71
Mutation 72
To One Without Faith 73
Rose of Memory 74
Let Me Forget 75
x
6
 INTRODUCTION by Kathy L'Amour
The first book Louis purchased for his own library was The Standard Book of British
and American Verse. It was publ
ished in 1932 and much used an
d loved. It is still in our library, now in its second binding. Louis' love of poetry
and the English language was so strong and important in his
life
that it carried him through many dangerous and lonely days. At the time, poetry was
the expression
of Louis' most important thoughts and feelings. It was the first manner in which
he wrote about his life,
his views and the places he had seen. Some
of these poems got publ
ished in various newspapers and magazines, and though he made
only a few dollars from these sales, they gave him the optimism to keep writing.
One of his most encouraging moments came in 1936, when he received a letter from
George Riley Hall, the editor of the
Daily Free-Lance,
about his poem, "Banked Fires," which had just been published in the Daily Oklahoman.
A section of the letter read: ". . . The poem is exquisite. . . . The craftsmanship
shows the master workman. . . . The imagery is all one could ask. The treatment is
skilled. The sentiment one that will appeal to millions. There is one line that is
worthy of the old masters-'The arching of a dream across the years.' A gifted writer
might produce a whole volume and not write a line like that."
Louis returned to the United States in the late nineteen
xi
7
 thirties, after years at sea. He moved in with his parents on a small farm near
Choctaw, Oklahoma, that Parker, his brother, had bought for them a few
years before. He was thirty years old, and knew that if he was ever going to make
something of himself as a writer he ha
d b
etter get started. He began writing short story after short story but they almost
always were rejected. I think that he must have
felt very tempted to leave again, to go back to the kind of life he had lived before
he settled down and forced himself
to think about his
future. You can feel that wanderlust calling to him in his poems, "I'm a Stranger
Here," "Words From a Wanderer," and "I Sh
all Go Back." He even wrote about putting his old life behind him and facing his
future
in "Let Me Forget," the poem that he used to close the
Yondering collection.
Earlier, he had taken a few stabs at poetry. In the beginning he didn't even know
about rhyme and meter. A friend who read some of his attempts in the late twenties
told him that "it didn't scan." He had no idea what she was talking about, but being
Louis, hack to the library he went to read and reread Wordsworth, Browning, Tennyson,
Frost, and Service, to discover just what it was that made a great poem.
During his travels he would occasionally compose poems, and it always seemed remarkable
to me that he could both create and then remember them without writing them down;
it seemed as if he could never forget a line or even a word. Louis explained that
before the development of writing, poetry was one of the tricks ancient people used
8
 to remember stories. The rhyme and meter of each line would help you to remember
the next. Because of this, poems that told a story, like those of Robert Service,
were very popular with the hobos and sailors of his day. They were men with few possessions,
some even illiterate, and so they were, in a way, like those ancient people who carried
their literature in their heads.
One night in a ship's foc'stle, Louis had been trying to work out a particularly
romantic poem when several of the other seamen began to tease him about only being
able to write "love-stuff." After several hours of work he presented them with "My
Three Friends," proving that he indeed had other talents.
When we first began dating, Louis gave me a copy of Smoke From This Altar,
and through it I began to learn a little about the man who would become my husband
and the father of our children. Many of the poems are about what he saw and thought
and felt while he was in China and the South Pacific; others are about places he
visited that we went back to together. We drove out to Secret Pass, the subject of
a poem in this book, just after we got married. If I remember correctly, it is on
the old Hardyville stage road outside of Kingman, Arizona. "Biography In Stone" was
written about an outcropping of rock that Louis thought looked slightly like a man;
he had become fascinated by it when he was a young man working at the Katherine Mine
in the same area. "Enchanted Mesa" was written sixty years ago about what he saw
when he first came through the area just west of where we now have our ranch.
9
 Because he was having little luck with his other writing, Louis decided that he
would collect the best of
his poetry into a book. He hoped that publishing it wou
ld bring him some attention and prestige. A small Oklahoma City publishing company
fi
nally agreed to release
Smoke From This Altar in 1939. Although not very many copies were sold, the book
was well
reviewed. Kenneth
Kaufman, editor of the book page for the Daily Oklahoman, wrote, "What struck me
first was his delight in and love
for words; and what struck me next was his industry. He has that infinite capacity
for
taking pains, which Carlyle, I believe it was, gave as a definition of genius. And
he has the ability to take punishment which only a trained fighter (which he is,
along with all his other accomplishments)
could stand. By which I mean to imply that he will be
heard from in a big way one of these days. . . . For he has the three things which
it takes to make a writer: a love for words, industry, and something to say."
Because of Smoke From This Altar,
Louis was able to move into a different phase as a writer. He began to receive requests
to speak, read his poetry, and autograph. He had published his first book, and it
served to move his career along. About the same time a few of his short stories sold
and he was on his way as a writer of note.
I've decided to add a few poems that weren't in the original Smoke From This Altar.
Some are humorous, some light verse, and some serious and thoughtful. I hope you
enjoy them.
xiv
10
 SMOKE
FROM THIS
ALTAR
11
 OUT OF THE OCEAN DEPTHS SOUNDLESSLY MOVING
Out of the ocean depths soundlessly movingUp from the violet
unblossoming sea; Out of the vastness
that strangely disturbing, Troubles my heart
with mute colloquy;
Out of the distance
that holds me enchanted, Up from the green,
shifting violence belowA voice from the twilight, the beauty, the stillness,
A voice that comes calling and calling to go.
Out of the purple along the horizon,
Up from the endless unchallenged beyondA call that comes whispering, softly, enduring
12
 1
13
 Of ways to go wandering, seas so alluring.
Out of the ocean depths soundlessly movingUp from my memories disturbing and deep;
A spirit that urges me
restlessly onward,
A dreaming that haunts me awake and asleep.
14
 SMOKE FROM THIS ALTAR
Nothing has life more beautiful than ships Nothing with half their white-winged majesty,
Nothing the fancy captures, roving free,
Can equal cloud-crowned masts or prow that dips Into the waves . . . no sight can
this eclipse . . . For here has man put wings across the sea, Harnessed the winds
to labor, daringly,
Challenged the gods with brine upon his lips.
Give us this beauty that will conquer power,
Give us this strength that will defy the fates . . The creak of wind-whipped rigging
for an hour And spl
endor of the sails . . . this expiates;
Give us this glory . . . we must not forget, That man is noble, too, in silhouette.
15
 INTERLUDE: HONGKONG HARBOR
The harbor lights are shining from the quay Like golden daggers in the heart of night;
I stand below the lonely anchor light
And watch the sleeping city down the hay; The world about is faint and far awayA
thing of understanding more than sight, And with the dawn, like some enchanted rite,
It rises from the mist to meet the day.
The shades of night have set their sombre sail And fled before the crimson scythe
of dawn; The stars go out, like candles in a gale
And leave a scene some artist might have drawn, Of ships aflame and spires in golden
mail
That hesitates a moment and is gone.
16
 WORDS FROM A WANDERER
I do not know your wooded slopes and streams But as the passing stranger knows the
way The nets of
dusk have trapped the ending day,
When webs of shadow snare the filtered gleams; I only know how dim the pathway seems
And how the dust from many roads of gray, Has sunk into my heart and made me pay
With tears and loneliness for these few dreams.
I do not know the way the hearth-light hums Nor how the kiss of childish lips may
feel,
I only know the way the mad sea churns
And how the blowing spray, like hits of steel, Can tear like savage teeth, and rip
from me, These last reluctant hopes, and leave me free.
5
17
 TO CLEONE: IN BUDAPEST
You were so sure your warmth and love would hold And you did not think of the trade
wind's whine, Nor could you know the lands I'd known of old, Or that the paths you
knew were never mine.
You did not guess the curse of common things, Or that the bonds of love could ever
chafe; You thought the eagle's firmly pinioned wings Were bound so very close that
love was safe;
And then one night when stars were soft and clear, Like harbor lights in some strange
port of calling
 dropped my off-shore lines and harbor gear, And sailed away to sea and left it all.
6
18
 I'M A STRANGER HERE
If I, between two suns, should go away, No voice would lift to ask another why,
No word would question my retreat, nor sigh, Nor wonder why I'd chosen not to stay;
For I'm a stranger here, of other clay;
A guest within this house, a passerbyA roving life whose theme has been "Goodbye"
A shadow on the road, a thing astray.
What dim ancestral heritage is mine That now awakens in my blood regret?
What destiny is this, what strange design, That I must seek a haunting silhouette
In unremembered lands my dreams divine,
But cannot quite recall nor quite forget?
7
19
 WITHOUT THIS LAND
These tawny hills cannot be mine, for here Am I a stranger too, an alien thing
Swept up by some uncertain tide, or blown By casual winds; these stubbled fields
that lie So impotent beneath the autumn sun Gathering strength before the quickening
urge Of spring will swell the soil with some
New birth, and green will grow the cotton then, And corn-lands sun themselves to
life anew Beneath familiar skies, but fields I know
The moment only, then no more, for I Shall pass and sink no roots within this soil.
The pasture here cannot be mine to feel Nor yet these dwarfish trees that twist above
Whining their anguish to the winter wind. Not here am I to lean against a tree, Feeling
the furrowed bark beneath my hand And knowing it and I were rooted deep
In this same loam; not here am I to feel The soil is one with me, with this my flesh,
This heart, this brain; not here am I at home Nor yet upon the sea where long slate
swe
lls And slowly heaves and rolls and flings itself
Against the bulwarked rocks, to ro
ll again And yet again with long repeated blows.
Not here am I at home, for this quick flesh
20
 Is born of many seas and many roadsIs one with dust and wind-blown spume, and leaves
That fall and feed themselves to earth
again.
These things I know but as the passerby With many other things before, beyondThis
land, these hills, those ships and seas are all A part of me, my flesh is of that
dust,
That rain, that brine, that song is in my blood; The dust of many roads is now my
flesh,
And dust to dust returns, so this must strive Ever returning to the roads again,
And I am rooted neither there nor here But am a stranger to this soil, this hearth.
21
 LIFE
I dream, and my dreams are all broken; I love and my loving is vain . . .
I speak, and the words are all spoken, I look and see nothing but pain.
10
22
 BIOGRAPHY IN STONE
It still was dark when he paused at the desert's edgeAbove, the ridges lay like a
sleeping beast
Against a sky where late stars hung like lamps Suspended from a canopy of shade.
Standing alone, he watched the morning begin, A bigger man than most, and marked
by life
With lines of pain, with moulded power and strength. In the east the pale bacillus
of the sun
Faded the darkness with a misted glowThe shadows, too reluctantly at bay, Yielded
before the slow advance of dawn, And a crimson arrow hurled a flame across The clouds
to sear the sable from the sky Except where dying darkness dripped a blood Of shadows
in the lee of shattered cliffs.
Already a massive head was taking form, Growing from the granite into brows and noseA
sombre etching against the dawning light; Hands upon hips he stared upward, watching
The morning paint a blush upon the cliff,
A thousand feet of sheer, unbroken rock Thrusting itself up boldly from the sand.
From twenty miles away it could be seen, The highest point in all that rocky range;
Crossing the valley's floor it gripped the eye,
11
23
 A monument in stone where years had left
No blemish more than did the shadows of cloud Floating so lazily across the sun.
Slowly his sculptor's eye took in the line Of that gigantic head, feeling its way
Across those heavy brows and where the eyes Were soon to be. It was too great a taskToo
much for any man in one short life.
Out of that stolid stone his mind had thought To create something grand that would
remain, A silent symbol of the strength of men,
To last through many years-a guardian
Of the sands whose tranquil brow was evidence
That here Man dreamed, and dreaming dealt with stone, Carving the greatness and the
majesty of Man
Into this timeless form to leave behind A mute protest against futility.
Turning away, he took the mountain trail Winding upward across the precipice,
A narrow path that was a slender thread Suspended there between achievement and death;
A rolling rock beneath his careless
foot
Might be the fitting end to such a dream,
And check with one swift plunge his carving hands. Thinking of it, he smiled, and
looked back down
12
24
 The dizzy height, quite unafraid of falling. At last he reached the top and stood
alone. Darkly, against the amber light of dawn He watched the evanescent sun rays
climb, Then turned to sort his gear before the day Of work began, yet pausing time
to time To deeply breath and watch an eagle soar Above the cliff; sometimes it dropped
so low
It seemed to sweep his head with slanting wing. "Look out, old bird, you're coming
close!" he said, "But we've a lot in common-did you guess?" Below, a rattling car
disgorged three men,
Who saw his figure etched against the sky.
"He's a man, that one!" the older man remarked. "It's all a dream, but what a splendid
dream! Ours would be a better world if more
Could dream like that. But it's too big for us." "He's a fool, Casey. Why spend his
gold like that? I'd never do the like as long as beer
And women last. He worked too hard, then sold His claim, and puts the money into
this.
But what a job! I like it, too, but I
Don't have to pay the bills. Let's go aloft." Silently mounting across a golden cliff,
And joining Morgan above the lofty brow They lowered staging down the precipice
13
25
 Descending to their work.
Day after day
Their muscles shaped the cliff, the stone took form As though a Titan stepped from
living rock;
The shoulders, hands and feet half-shaped by wind And rain and sun before the work
began.
"See, Casey," Morgan said. "It's not so hard. I used to wonder no one saw the lines
Before I came along-it all was here.
A rounding here and there, a needed touch, And just like that the figure takes its
form. The face alone remains, and that's the job." "Ay, a job is right. How long
did this
This man of yours stand waiting for an eye? How many million years will men go by
And wonder at the hand that carved this stone?" "They'll wonder then, for all of
me. My name
Is only a symbol for a certain thing,
A certain face and hands, and certain thoughts; The face and hands will go-this job
will lastThe bundled dreams and lies, the doubt and hope, The things that make up
Me, they will be gone; My flesh and blood will turn to grass perhaps,
To feed the cows that feed the young of fools. So why the name? I like the job itself,
It's something for a man with guts to do,
14
26
 The job is big enough and grand enough, but small At that; I used to work my claim
and dream
Of this, or in the mines, a thousand feet Below, I'd curse the heat and change my
steel, Thinking of this, and how some day I'd shape A figure here the sun would strike
each dawnHow passing men would mark this splendid thing,
And moving on, might dream great dreams themselves." He paused, and turned to face
the old man.
"But now, my Irish friend, there's more to say. You boys had better go-I'm running
short, And there's an even chance you'll not he paid If
you stay on. I've liked you all, and wish There were some other way, but after all
It's up to me, I'll finish here alone."
The days crept by like cogs upon a wheel Leaving their mark upon that brooding face,
Where single-jack and chisel shaped each line, Lifting the features from the stone
as though Only the form were being chipped away,
And behind that rocky mask the face had lived Waiting in silence for the artist's
hand.
McLain, an engineer from Frisco, stopped
His car and climbed the trail to watch the work,
15
27
 Almost completed now. He saw the man Descend the cliff, then turned his eyes to
note The skill with which the art had shaped the stone, Suggesting lines like wraiths
beneath the rock
As though the spirit of the mountain stirred, Awakening at last to life and strength.
"Morgan! I might have known you were the one.
But even you . . . why, Man, I've never seen such work! Does it have a name? Is it
Hercules or Thor?"
He looked again upon that sombre face, Bathed now in sunset rays, aloft, alone;
There was grandeur there, and solitude and strength, And some nobility not quite
beyond
The grasp of men, some beauty there, and calm. But nothing there of gods, but only
menAnd sympathy no god could understand.
"No thunder-hurling god could have a face Like that," Morgan replied. "He's just
a man,
I would not have him more. A man and a dream, For all the things that man has built
are dreams; A man conceives, a man creates, he builds
And then destroys that he may build again. I think that it would be a splendid thing
If men were big enough, like that-" he waved A hand up toward the face; compassionate,
All-seeing strength revealed in every line.
16
28
 "They could forget their little jealousies, Their petty hates and greeds, the futile
lines They draw of race and creed-they could be free. For Man is less than nothing
in himself
His works reveal him best; there's grandeur there, And beauty, power, and the glory
of his dreams. In a thousand lands a thousand altars lift
Their incense to the sky-to the gods, perhaps? More likely to Man's better self,
his dreams, Ideals and hopes. But I've a job to do,
And that's enough."
Low-flying dusk caressed The hills, the fingered pinnacles grew tall,
And in the canyons, narrow-mouthed, the dark Flowered against the walls, and gaunt
white fangs Of cacti gnawed the sky. High overhead
The stone man faced the night, a resting hand Upon a granite knob. A motor whined
Across the valley floor, a distant sound Returning McLain to work and tomorrow. And
Morgan waited the sound away, then took The downward path to the 'dobe beside the
walls. He hesitated, staring down the road
Toward Coyote Pass and the people and cities beyond. "I wonder if they'll ever come
this way?
And mass along these desert floors, to build
17
29
 Their homes of this red rock? Or will they pass And leave the desert here alone
with me?
I may be here. That rocky shape contains Too much of me to leave, too much of cold
And hunger's written there in that still face,
Too much of loneliness and suffering, too.
I wanted a job that was big enough for a manBeing mid-wife to a mountain's big enough.
I've hammered there, and carved until I know Each curve and crack, each notch upon
the stone. The biography of man is written there
In every line of that great granite face, The biography of man, and all his dreams.
Someday I'll shake the dust from off my shoes An
d leave it all behind, the whole damned thing."
A wind from down the ranges touched the sand And whispered there among the cactus
spines, His memory stirred, and he recalled the road,
But shrugged and turned away to take the path. In the still night desert air a coyote
called,
And a burro bell in the moonlight sounded clear. Dark silence filled the hollow of
the hillsSomewhere a pebbl
e rattled down the rocks
And the stone man stared into the years before Where centuries gathered their dust
and confusion.
18
30
 AN EMBER IN THE DARK
Faintly, along the shadowed shores of night I saw a wilderness of stars that flamed
And fluttered as they climbed or sank, and shamed The crouching dark with shyly twinkling
light;
I saw them there, odd fragments quaintly bright, And wondered at their presence there
unclaimed,
Then thought, perhaps, that they were dreams unnamed, That faded slow, like hope's
arrested flight.
Or vanished suddenly, like futile fears
And some were old and worn like precious things That youth preserves against encroaching
yearsSome disappeared like songs that no man sings,
But one remained-an ember in the darkI crouched alone, and blew upon the spark.
19
31
 NOCTURNE
The stars unveil As clouds regale Themselves with flight,
The moon, a moth Whom loves betroth To summer night.
The trees a fringe That darkly cringe
Along the sky; And I, alone, Regret I've known
That love can die.
The hours sound deep, I cannot sleep
For love is gone; No stars remain To mourn my pain
Or greet the dawn.
20
32
 WINGS OVER WAVES
They lightly tread on dancing feet With elfin steps to lilting heat Upon the level
sand;
Where wind and wave contrive to meet They race along, then stop, and go
To dodge the sea's returning flowThey sail ahout on wings of snow Ahove the silent
strand.
Then stepping quickly, lightly trace Queer hieroglyphs upon the face Of dampened
sand with fairy grace Before the changing sea;
Their fingered feet in signs grotesque Step out their weaving arahesque
Or pose in manner picturesque With somhre gravity.
They halance through a queer quadrille
And weave strange patterns with their skill Or call in voices loud and shrill
Ahove the ocean's roar;
They light on rocks to primp and preen And flirt in manner quite serene
Or float ahove the ocean's green Along the lonely shore.
21
33
 A HANDFUL OF STARS
Give me, 0 Night, a blessing
Of peace, and a handful of starsGive me, 0 Dawn, a beginning, New life, and a healing
of scars;
Give me, 0 Day, a freshening
Of spirit, and warmth in the sunGive me, 0 Earth, of thy bounty, Strength for the
task I've begun.
Leave me, 0 Night, of your stillness A calm for my inward soul
Leave me a breath of your darkness To cool me, and keep me whole; Leave me the wind
in the willows
The roll of the surf and the seaLeave me, Beloved, my memories Of dreams you have
given to me.
22
34
 WINTER
Bare trees standing stark Against the sky, lifting Thin, imploring arms To the cold
gray clouds.
23
35
 SECRET PASS
Those hills remember me, for I alone Sought out their solitudes and silent ways;
The harsh, forbidding cliffs and canyon maze
Recall each step I took, each path I've known; No trees are there, but barren butte
and cone,
And empty aisles where long, lost shadows grazeOr wind-worn monuments that marked
my days With all the voiceless eloquence of stone.
If only I possessed their fortitude,
Their sombre freedom from this searing pain! If only I could lose in solitude,
These hollow, useless hopes that still remain! If only I could find my heart subdued,
And cease its sounding on that old refrain!
24
36
 BANKED FIRES
I shall remember when my days are few The twilight on a narrow, winding road; The
slender silver moon that days corrode;
The star that lent its loveliness to you. The arching of a dream across the years
I shall remember with the slow-winged night The shadow of your hair against the light
Of locust trees abloom with frosted tears.
I shall remember when my fires are low,
The way you looked at me; the words you used; The fragrance of your hurried breath,
till lo, Through all the pain of love our spirits fused.
I shall remember when my fires cease
Your heart against my own-for that was peace.
25
37
 NORTH CAPE
A hollow hand of hills that clutches dawn Close in their impotent grasp, as fading
slow, The shadows slip away before the day
And leave the sun behind; its filtered glow
Can leave no warmth on slopes so sparsely clad, But sickly lies among the brown blades
there, Helpless against this cold
, impassive earth; Even the stones are numb and stu
bborn hereEven the dust lies flat against the road
Even the streams to immobility
Are chilled, to frozen pathways here, no joy Of water whispering to the stones, but
stark And sullen silence down these empty hills. Even the wings of death avoid this
place, Avoid these barren fields, for Death itself Must nestle to the warmth of life
and youth, And nothing dies where nothing lives. These men Wither
away and fall, but do not die;
They age, but not with years, they die but not With death, but with the chill of
things out-worn. No youth is here, for these are born to age;
Even the summer sun is haunted here
With chilled and doubting glow, then fades away.
And what to these can mean the Renaissance, The fire that flamed in Florence and
gave birth
26
38
 To Angelo, Leonardo, and their dreams?
These fires are frozen here, and numb with coldThe unresponding hills-gray seas,
gray earth, Gray clouded skies-no warmth of blues or greens. Even the passions here
are cold and dull;
That Athens was, that Plato dreamed, that Poe Had haunted nights with hunger from
his heart, Or Byron sang of love-what mean these things To these? This is the land
of Thor, but not
Of Aphrodite-no Pan could be conceived Upon these sleeping slopes or in these thoughts.
For there is only strength and hard hands formed To fierceness and to fury here .
. . and cold.
27
39
 TO YOU, JEANNINE
The winds an owl Who likes to prowl
The night serene, A drifting ghost Who blows to boast
Around you, Jeannine.
The star-lit fleece Of clouds at peace
With night between, Recalls a thought
Of dreams I wrought For you, Jeannine.
The curtained light Forbids the light
To intervene,
The moon has heard My whispered word To you, Jeannine.
28
40
 DECADENCE
I sit alone and watch the stars die out
Before the creeping dawn comes up the sky,
Like some old priest whose faith has turned to doubt When gods no longer heed his
wailing cry.
The dark trees etch themselves against the dawn, Like memories of old that bring
regret,
Or little formless fears the night has drawn Against the sky in sharp-lined silhouette.
The moon is fading now, the skies grow grayThe turning tide of life is at its ebb,
And mists along the valley float away Like silvery dew upon a spider's web.
This world is dying now; there is no more
A dawn will come more hopeless than the night, Our rhymes are run, our hopes no longer
soar,
We bow beneath a barren beauty's blight.
The ashes of our altar fires are cold,
And prophets wail the times they cannot mendFacing the future with hearts grown old
We only know . . . a world can end.
29
41
 LOVE OUT OF SEASON
The spring is gone, but left behind with me Untempered fever raging in my veins,
Unkind remembrance of the April rains,
And something of its own glad gaiety; To be in love in spring is best, you see,
When warming earth's alive with growing pains, And cherry petals fill the tangled
skeins
The spider spins between the fence and tree.
But summer's come, and that infernal spring Has left this love behind-the season's
wrong,
And I should think of keeping cool, and bring Tranquillity, and less impassioned
song
To share my bed, and yet the whole night through I lie awake and swear-and think
of you.
30
42
 AFTER TOMORROW
No more but this-no more but echoes down The lonely hills, and breathless hush-did
Man Perhaps, in movement pass this way, and plan Some transitory edifice or town?
And did some brain-created glory crown This hill, imposing while the moments ran
A stately emptiness that failed to span
The years that saw his passing, saint and clown?
Where now the bubble-dreams that stabbed the sky, The cloud-encroaching spires of
steel and glass? Where now the thunder-throated guns
of death Who breathed their anguish with a whinning cry?
The scars are healed, the ghostly streets are grassMan and his wonders vanished,
like a breath.
31
43
 YACODHAPURA
I stood within the high-arched temple doors Within a columned hall at close of day,
Where once the solemn crowds had come to pray And kneel in silence on the dusty floors;
I wandered down the roofless corridors
Where Time's relentless hand had carved its way Along the wind-worn walls of stolid
gray
Where nature wages endless wearing wars.
Above, beyond, the slowly setting sun Painted the towering columns one by one,
And lit the halls with mute tranquillity;
Some sculptured dreams in dull, time-tarnished stone Looming long years, forgotten
and aloneA shadowed symbol of futility.
32
44
 STEPPE
Beneath a barren sky the crusted snow Lies cold and lifeless like a frozen sea; The
lonely, prowling wind moans eerily
And loiters, sighing, like the voice of woe; A land, unborn and still where weary
blow The icy winds in cold hostility,
While earth and sky in gray monotony With cheerless consonance, together flow.
What bleak and impotent old world is this?
No whistling blast, but dull, and numb, and still Unending miles where frigid plains
deny
The throbbing urge of life, the warming kiss Of fire, and naught but fitful puffs
of chill And piercing winds beneath a rheumy sky.
33
45
 TO GIORDANO BRUNO
(Martyr of science, 1548-1600)
You were the best of them, Bruno, the best By more than the flames that fired your
flesh to dustThe best by more than the truth you
framed your lips
To speak. The One was All, the All was One, And the only law the ever changing form.
What did you think as the lambent light crept up Licking your limbs with tongue that
seared
and charred?
Did you think then, Bruno, that the flame was Change Returning the One to All, the
flesh to dust?
Your seven years were long, yet longer still The moments when the candent light crept
up Enfolding your flesh with fervent
flames to char The hope there must have been, to stifle truth
With caustic brand, to still th
e voice that spoke. Did you remember then, Bruno, that wi
ll
Was ever free? The fathers lit the fire, And hung like ghouls along its outer edge,
But were the flames less bright because
they blackened
The lips of truth? I wonder if the blaze That sheathed your form with lustful heat
turned white
34
46
 Around that mighty heart? Around that brain?
The one who muttered that "The earth still moves," He was a wiser, if not a better
man;
For aging hearts are brittle on the pyre.
You spoke too often, Friend; had you forgot The insignificant ever dislike
To he reminded of insignificance?
You were the best of them, Bruno, the best
By more than the flames that wrought the Change In the monads of your soul. As the
flames Engulfed in fiery foam your anguished lips,
Did you dying, wonder at those foolish ones Who sought to stifle truth with violence?
35
47
 THE WEARY ONE
I wandered along the dusty way seeking the dawn of another day,
like a drifting chip on a lonely stream, like a breath of wind or a vagrant dream
a forgotten soul on a weary quest
searching for home and love and rest.
I wandered along the dusty way
and found my idols with feet of clay,
my letters were ashes, my castles dustthe sword I wielded eaten by rust,
my dreams were shattered-a heavy load is all that is left on a winding road.
36
48
 HILDEBRAND
He walked away at dusk, and it was long Before we met again; in Singapore
One night on Malay Street (a corridor
Of darkness cleft with light) I heard a songAmong ten thousand I could not be wrongA
voice like booming seas along the shore Singing an old, old tune once sung before
The mast on tea ships bound for old Hongkong.
He waved to me-a bottle and a girlI saw him not again, but once I heard
A seaman tell of storms along the strand,
Of great, wet rocks where foaming combers curl, And of a seaman, blonde and tall,
and stirred By fires of fury-that was Hildebrand.
37
49
 ENCHANTED MESAS
Weary at last with way-worn wandering I paused to rest in solemn solitude,
Watching the sinking sun, and pondering Upon the desert's melancholy mood; The falling
dark had left the day subdued,
And crowned the sullen hills with fading light; Huge boulders loomed, a black and
b
attered brood, Like dark, unholy spectres in the night,
And gathered clans of wind went moaning in their flight.
Along the burnt-out ridges wind-swept rocks Heaved granite backs against the evening
sky,
A brutal, barren land whose silence mocks Man's empty efforts to identify
His works with these exhausted hills, that lie Like some abandoned world left desolate,
Whose stark remains are all that signify
Some half-completed effort to create
From fires that fused these hills and left them devastate.
These blasted rocks, so lifeless, numb, and stillA land of mighty cliffs that stand
aghast
Upon the desert's brink, without the will
To face the yucca's mute battalions, massed
38
50
 Like nightmare creatures from the ages past Returned to conquer fiefs they knew
of old;
These crumbling walls, and rambling ramparts vast, And tumbled stones from
nature's shattered moldTheir solitude is mine, and a
ll their moonlit gold.
Like clinkers from an ash-heap of the godsOr toys of Titans, torn and tossed away;
Grim monuments to war against the odds
Of storm and rain, or winds that wildly play Across the cacti-studded sands to flay
With violence, and seek to overwhelm These rocky spires that neither bend nor sway;
Time has no meaning here-Space holds the helm, And years, like clouds pass by, while
silence rules the realm.
The canyons weave their winding arabesque While cliffs like frozen thunder stand
aside
And weather-molded stones, in shapes grotesque Lean lonesomely above the desert's
tide;
These hills are mine . . . their wasted flanks confide, Their ghostly fingered dawns
reach out for
me, For we are kin, and time sha
ll not divide
My heart from this, our voiceless colloquy But let us rest alone for all eternity.
39
51
 MY THREE FRIENDS
I have three friends, three faithful friends, More faithful could not beAnd every
night, by the dim firelight, They
come to sit
with me.
The first of these is tall and thin
With hollow cheeks, and a toothless grin; A ghastly stare, and scraggly hair,
And an ugly lump for a chin.
The second of these is short and fat With beady eyes, like a starving ratHe was soaked
in sin to his oily slain, And verminous, at that.
The crouching one is of ape-like plan, Formed like a beast that resembled man: A
freakish thing, with arms a-swing,
And he was the third of that gruesome clan. The first I stabbed with a Chinese knife,
And left on the white beach sand,
With his ghastly stare, and blood-soaked hair, And an out-flung, claw-like hand;
The fat one stole a crumbling crust, That he wolfed in his swineish waySo I left
him there, with eyes a-glare,
40
52
 And his head cut off half-way.
We fought to kill, the brute and I, That the one that lived might eat, So I killed
him too, and made a stew, And dined on human meat.
And so these three come to visit me, When without the night winds howl
The one with the leer, the one with a sneer, And one with a brutish scowl;
Their lips are dumb, but the three dead come And crouch by the hollow grate
The man that I stabbed, the man that I cut, And the gruesome thing that I ate.
Their lips are sealed, with blood congealed, But they will not let me be,
And so they haunt, grim, ghastly, and gaunt, Till death shall set me free.
I have three friends, three faithful friends, More faithful could not be
And every night, by the dim firelight, They come to sit with me.
41
53
 IN AN OLD TEMPLE
Into that stillness I could never thrust
A lance of sound so harsh as human word, To stir the sleeping echoes from the dust
That now are lying empty and unheard;
I could but whisper softly to the ghosts And linger there a moment as in prayer,
Adding another to the voiceless hosts Unnumbered ages have abandoned there.
42
54
 THE SEA, OFF VANUA LEVU
There is a beauty in this beyond believing,
A strength that is stronger than the hands of men, There is a glory in this that
is greater than grieving That brings a stillness to my heart again;
There is a power in this beyond longing or laughter, A grandeur unmeasured by cloud
or sky
There is a sounding here, and an echo afterA sounding of surf and a sea-gull's cry;
There is an ending here, for the time, of emotion Of sorrow and sadness, of envy
and fear;
All these are forgotten beside the wide ocean, That gray rolling splendor, cold and
austere.
43
55
 IF THERE IS BEAUTY
If there is any beauty after this Or any quiet joy, or imagery
Of happiness that we may share, then we Must never hesitate, nor be remiss;
If in the after years the deep abyss
Of sorrow draws you close, and mournfully The old d
reams die, then you must turn to me And to this love that needs no emphasis.
If, when tomorrow comes, the things you knew No longer are, but like an empty town
Whose windows catch the fading sunset flame, Your eyes reflect your loneliness, and
you
Watch one by one the swifter years go downThen turn to me, for I shall be the same.
44
56
 SHIP ACROSS THE SKY
White wings across the morning, Dark sails against the moon,
Scudding along in the spindrift While the trade-winds croon;
Dark hull against the blue, White spars across the skyLike a song from out of the
distance And clear as a sea-gull's cry;
Hull down against the horizon And royals across the gray,
I saw it fade into the distance Sailing my dreams away.
45
57
 McVEY
It did not matter who or what he was Before he came to these sun-spattered hills,
Or why he chose that wind-tormented ridge
The scene of his grim struggle with the soil; He seemed to love it there, the sky
so near
It almost touched the gnarled and twisted trees. And often when the rain in frenzy
heat Against the staring windows and the roof, Flooding the planted fields to leave
them bare, And mark another year of fruitless toil,
We'd see him out beneath the lowering sky Undaunted by the storm, while lightning
leaped From pinnacle to pinnacle of
cloud.
While thunder rolled and rumbled off away Sulking and sullen like a baffled hound,
To lose itself in distance down the hills
Like the whimper of far-off trumpets, or waves Growling among the boulders worn and
old. On sunny days he'd
watch the racing clouds Go drifting down the sky like scattered
foam"Like ships," he'd say, "Like sailing ships at sea, Bound outward for
some port they cannot guess."
46
58
 I CAME TO CREATE
I came to create on a larger scaleTo shape a universe of stars and suns,
To chart the comet's course, and map the runs Of hurtling meteors down the midnight
trail;
I came to carve out mountain-tops, to flail Sun-burnished clouds to splendid shapes;
I came To write across the sky in words of flame
A stronger, sweeter song, a grander tale.
I came to walk with gods and found them men So blind with greed they had not paused
to see How hunger walked with hopelessness againI came to create and remain to plea
For those without the words to speak, for all The disinherited-is this so small?
47
59
 LINES TO A SEASON
How quietly the year has passed away
Into that nothingness from whence it came, And now the slowly drifting days are gray
Like powdered ashes near a dying flame;
The maple trees bewail their fallen crown
And autumn trails away like smoke at dawnThe grass has faded to a dusty brown,
And I am lonely for a summer gone.
Each sunset tinted leaf is like a day Blown from the tree of unrelenting years, Leaves
fall, and flowers die, lives float away, And we are bitter now, with unshed tears.
A dying sun is setting through the grayHow quietly the year has passed away!
48
60
 I SHALL GO BACK
I shall go back-I cannot longer stay
The dark gods grumble in the storm tonight, The low winds moan, and out beyond the
light A dark sea rolls and mumbles in the bay;
I shall go back-I've been too long away
From dim sea dawns and combers crested white, From ashen brows of cloud, from sound
and sight Of all the things I knew but yesterday.
Out there the hollow-hearted moon will glow Upon the gray, mist-haunted seas where
men Have left no scars of wars, no beaten track;
No blaring streets, but green sea gods belowNo ordered ways, but fog and storm again,
And time to work and dream-I shall go hack.
49
61
62
 NEWLY COLLECTED
POEMS
63
 I HAVEN'T READ GONE WITH THE WIND
I have read Shakespeare, Shelley, and Poe What profit is in these?
I sit alone wherever I go And strive to look at ease. I crouch alone beside the wall
To avoid their eager lookBut no matter how I stall They'll ask about that book.
I cannot check my sheepish blush, My color comes and goes,
I redden to my finger-tips And sometimes to my nose.
But they will leer and sneer at meTheir eyes triumphant shine,
Tho for every book they've read I've read forty-nine.
I wish I had their awful cheekI'd let them have their fling Then stories I'd tell
of Boccaccio
Not quite the proper thing;
Of Homer and Horace and Catullus Hudson and Halleck and Hoffenstein
64
 53
65
 For every single book they've read I've read forty-nine.
No other title do they know, The refrain is scarcely new
Tho the chances are their knowledge Came from a book review;
They ask me if I've read itI humbly whisper "No" (Thank God, again I've said it!)
They clap their hands and glow.
I've read John Donne-I like to drift Thru Plato, Plutarch, and Euripides;
I know Spinoza-I've read Dean Swift,
And Stendhal, or Sterne, or Maimonidies. I've read Wycherley, and read Sam Pepys
Not quite so funny, but subtler
In spite of all that I'm down in the deeps I know nothing about Rhett Butler!
I'm familiar with Falstaff, Dido, and Puck But no one gives me a tumble
I've done my reading-I'll have no truck
With the thousands who chortle and rumble, And talk about Butler and Scarlett O'Hare.
54
66
 Did she right? Did she wrong? they gasp and exclaimIf she'd morals or not, I don't
seem to care
But I'm plucking the coverlet over that name.
I'm almost a social outcast now For no matter where I go,
They crowd around and ask me Be it concert, party, showI hesitate as in a dream
One would almost think I'd sinned But if another asks me, I will scream
NO! I haven't read Gone With The Wind!
55
67
 IN PROTEST
Do not tell me-let me wonder Why the populace must blunder Over my name?
I have waded dumbled through Names as had as Ruth Suckow,
And if mine's quite in a Frenchy way, What about Bill Rose Benet?
I have bowed with proud head humbled When over Bjorkman I have mumbled, Or when I
failed to end with "o"
The name of Dion BoucicaultTo my shame;
But whenever I speak of Heinrich Heine His name is rhymed with Carolina; There still
are names too tough for me, But I ring the Belloc with Hilaire;
I've listened to recondite rabble
Who put the "T" in Tietjens, and put the "cab" in Cabell,
But soon the guys will be in armor Who persist in saying "Larmour" For I am hot upon
the spoor
Of all who fail to say L'Amour Which is my name.
56
68
 QUESTION
Here's to the lands untraveled And the roads I've never known,
To the high, lost lakes in the mountains The islands that linger alone;
Here's to the hands I've never held, And the lips I've never kissedTo all the things
I might have done,
And all the things I've missed. Here's to the eyes that look into mine, To the urge
that's burning bright;
For my pulse heats strong and my heart is warm,
And . . . what are you doing tonight?
57
69
 A WAIL FROM A PULPETEER
If I could end this servitude
To need for coin, so gross and lewd, I'd face the world with fortitude
No doubt.
If I had four and twenty blonds A diamond and a stack of bonds, Some caviar, and
beer in ponds I'd flout
Inferior scum who write for cash Neglect their "art" and deal in trash, And from
my pen they'd feel the lash of blame.
In pleasant comfort, quite content, I'd sit secure-and scorn I'd vent While they
wrote tripe to pay the rent Of shame.
I'd lash those literary lice
With patronizing "good advice" I'd wreck their pulpy paradise And write
Of "selling souls" and "prostitution"With violent words and elocution
58
70
 I'd demand their bloody executionThe blight!
But all the phrases that I sculp Are buried in some woody pulp And as my weary sobs
I gulp
I try
To scratch out stories for my meat, And just perhaps a Sunday treat For Nature tells
me I must eatBut Why?
59
71
 OLD JERRY
old Jerry was a jolly man
Who knew the woodland ways, And used to trap along the creek Through cold and wintry
days;
He often told blood-thirsty tales Beside the roaring fire. Although the village folk
would say
Old Jerry was a liar.
They had no sympathy for him Nor his hair-raisin' yarns,
But we would often come to play
Around his ramblin' barnsIt may not he that Jerry told
The strict, unvarnished truth But what was that to you or me, Or any listening youth?
He had a scar upon his cheek"A knife in Singapore;"
He had a bullet in his arm"I got it in the war."
It may be that his yarns were true It may he that he lied.
I only know that we were sad When Jerry died.
60
72
 PICTURE
Gray fog steals along
The waterfront and gathers In shadowed places . . .
Old ships doze beside the dock Dreaming lazily .. .
Damp lumber piles loom darkly Along narrow slips . . . Somewhere a deep-throated
blast Echoes lonesomely . . .
With up-turned collar I slouch Away into mist.
61
73
 CALL OF THE TROPICS
There's a balmy breeze a-blowing Somewhere out across the sea,
And it's there that I am going Where the tossing waves roll free.
There's a tropic moon a-shining Down upon the coco-palm.
And it's for that land I'm pining With its drowsy, sleepy calm.
There's a great white ship a-steaming Out across the bounding main,
And its foaming wake is gleaming As it takes me back again.
62
74
 THE GLADIATOR
Mine is the glory of battle Mine whose reward is to dieMine is the ending death-rattle
Without the one gift of a sigh; Mine never the glory of conquest Mine never the fires
of a hate,
Mine only the pain and the death-restA bowing to powers of Fate.
Mine is the fury of fighting With nothing to win or defend, Mine is the heart that's
inviting
That deathly inevitable end; Mine is the net and the trident Mine is the word or
the spear, Mine were the lips the sigh sent I, who never knew fear.
Mine is the brain knows the ending Before the beginning has come, Mine whose prayers
are ascending
From lips that were never so dumb; Mine is the heart that is longing
For the distant green hills of my home, Mine is the life will grow thronging Through
lips that are bloody with foam.
63
75
 THE PIONEER
Across these hills you roamed so long ago When ringed around mute hostilityYou blazed
your trail to immortality,
And learned to know the bitterness of woe; You passed along, and yet you served to
show The way you
came to all posterity, And in your passing left a legacy
Of courage to the sons that were to grow. Where once your winding, rutted wagon trail
Had left its scars upon the yielding plainA furrowed field lies waiting in the sun.
And grazing cattle wander down the vale
As slowly walking homeward through the lane They signify the peace your courage won.
64
76
 TRANQUILLITY
I wander down along the oak-clad hills
Where twilight lives beneath the tranquil trees, Along dim aisles untouched by passing
breeze, Where perfume that the violet distills
Becomes the essence of the shade, and fills With fragrance all the gloomy corridorI
walk along the shadowed forest floor
And th
ink of things that solitude instills. No sound disturbs the fading afternoon
As mellow dreams come drifting down the years, Remembered thoughts, a half-forgotten
tuneAn endless chain of
hopes, and smiles, and tears;
So turning from almost forgotten ills,
I wander back along the oak-clad hills.
65
77
 TWILIGHT
These are the restful hours After the day has gone,
Before the buds of flowers
Have changed to the blooms of dawn; After the sun in setting
Has brought the twilight calm When man can rest, forgetting, Tranquil as a psalm.
66
78
 FOREST PEOPLE
I read their story in the sand, Another in the snow,
They write it with their tiny feet As they come and go;
Here one stopped to eat awhile, There one paused in fear
This was a sparrow's landing field With marks of his running gear;
Their joys and woes and tragedies Are written clear and bold.
Their swift, minute biographies The tracks they leave unfold.
67
79
 WINTER WINDS
Now coldly blow the wintry winds
Across the fields, and whining, Sing through the trees like violins
Some ghostly tune designing; And low, gray skies above the hills
Where stormy clouds are racing,
Are warning of the wind that chills
Through branches interlacing.
Far down the avenue of trees It dashes sadly moaning,
Along the stream where waters freeze
A plaintive song intoning; It whines and whirls among the leaves
To send them madly sailing, Then swings around beneath the eaves
The distant spring bewailing.
68
80
 LET IT SNOW
Snow in the sky,
Earth turning whiteA tree like a ghost
In the gathering night; Low clouds above, White world belowBarn roofs and houses
Covered with snow.
Deep in his burrow
The 'possum is huddled, Far in the bushes Snowbirds are cuddled,
The creek in the morning Coldly will gleam,
But I've got a hire,
A book and a dream.
69
81
 THEN CAME SPRING
The night before The sunset clear
Betokened that
The spring was near. When dusk came down The wild geese flew,
And all night long A soft wind blew; When morning came
We heard bees hum, And then we knew
That spring had come.
70
82
 RAIN
Wind on the roofClouds in the sky,
Close by the fire Contented and dry; Sitting and dreaming
Of journeys afar, Under the sun
Or under a star.
Loafing alone
And watching the rain Beating itself
On the window-pane Dreaming all night
Of sun coming soon And listening to rain Singing of June.
71
83
 MUTATION
A fog is on the lowlands
In drifting, ghostly wraiths, The tops of trees like islands Or spires of vanished
faiths;
There's silence on the river Like that of brooding death Where blades of swamp-grass
shiver
In the slightest stealing breath.
There's something in the morning. A hint of changing daysThere's freshness all adorning
Along the woodland ways;
The pastel shades
of May-time
Will come and disappear Between the dawn and day-time And summer will be here.
72
84
 TO ONE WITHOUT FAITH
What shall I say of you in future years,
When at the bar of judgment memory stands? What of the hope I built on shifting sands
Of love too weak to bear your faithless fears? What shall I say of youth and bitter
tears,
Of words that struck my brain like burning brands? What shall I say of cold remorseless
hands
That ground my lover's hopes like meshing gears? Where once my heart held naught
but love for you And d
reams of days we spent in ecstasy,
Or vagrant thoughts of vanished hours we knew There now are ashes of your loyalty;
What shall I say when asked if you were true, When faced with facts of your inconstancy?
73
85
 ROSE OF MEMORY
I turned the leaves of an ancient book A book that was faded and wornAnd there 'tween
the leaves I found a rose,
A tiny rose, and a thorn.
Where are the lips that kissed that rose And the hands so soft and white,
That gave to me that rose of love, The love we pledged that night?
Long since those days have passed away, And we have drifted apart,
The blood-red rose has faded nowBut the thorn rests deep in my heart.
74
86
 I LET ME FORGET
Let me forget the dark seas rolling, The taste of wind, the lure and lift Of far,
blue shrouded shores;
No longer let the wild wind's singing Build high the waves in this
My heart's own storm;
Now let me quietly work, for I have songs.
Let not my blood beat answer to the sea The beaches lie alone, so let them lie;
Let me forget the gray banked distant hills, The echoing emptiness of ancient towns;
No longer let the brown leaves falling
Move me to wander . . . I have songs to sing.
75
87
88
89