Page:The Dial (Volume 68).djvu/95



Fields of black tulips, And swarms of gold bees Drinking their bitter honey.

Above the gnarled old tree That clings to the bleakest side of the mountain, A torch of ivory and gold; And across the sky, The silver print Of spirit feet, Fled from the wonder.

The glowing anvil, Beaten by the winds; Star sparks, Burning and dying in the heavens; The furnace glare Red On the polished palm leaves.