Page:American Poetry 1922.djvu/201



. . . Look! this flesh how it crumbles to dust and is blown! These bones, how they grind in the granite of frost and are nothing! This skull, how it yawns for a flicker of time in the darkness, Yet laughs not and sees not! It is crushed by a hammer of sunlight, And the hands are destroyed. . . . Press down through the leaves of the jasmine, Dig through the interlaced roots—nevermore will you find me; I was no better than dust, yet you cannot replace me. . . . Take the soft dust in your hand—does it stir: does it sing? Has it lips and a heart? Does it open its eyes to the sun? Does it run, does it dream, does it burn with a secret, or tremble In terror of death? Or ache with tremendous decisions? . . . Listen! . . . It says: "I lean by the river. The willows Are yellowed with bud. White clouds roar up from the south 187