Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v109.djvu/828



is shaken by thundering feet, pierced by their javelins. There is no neutral ground. Such open territory is invaded. And the foe is scornful, and would rather rage on an ocean, resonant, electric, replying. It withdraws to sea, and the pallor of a wintry sun strikes on desolation and a few dishevelled domes.

But long after, it feels the stir of spring tides far down in its unlocking heart, and stretches in a lighter sleep as the geese cry over—northerly.

And the tamed birds at the marsh farm hearken too, and start from their hollows, craning their necks, straining cropped wings, yearning after that racial call in the midnight as it sweeps by on splendor of gray wing—all life, returning, life into regions still touched with death!