Page:American Poetry 1922.djvu/133



Break like frayed cords or, like a blade of straw, Bend towards the hilt and wilt like faded grass. Defeat and fresh retreat. . . . But once again God's murmurs pass among them and they mass With firmer steps upon the crowded plain. Vast clouds of spears and stones rise from the ground; But every dart flies past and rocks rebound To the disheartened angels falling around.

A pause. The angel host withdraws With empty boasts throughout its sullen files, Suddenly God smiles. . . . On the walls of heaven a tumble of light is caught. Low thunder rumbles like an afterthought; And God's slow laughter calls: "Behemot!"

Behemot, sweating blood, Uses for his daily food All the fodder, flesh and juice That twelve tall mountains can produce

Jordan, flooded to the brim, Is a single gulp to him; Two great streams from Paradise Cool his lips and scarce suffice.

When he shifts from side to side Earthquake gape and open wide; 119