Page:The Poet in the Desert.djvu/25



Yea, more beyond the count of suns.

I will not desert you.

Though I could weigh the soul and balance it

And know the very beginning of Life and ending of Death,

I would not desert you.

My little helpless children,

It is not right that you be born to die

Before you have lived.

I will not make a song of balmy Spring,

Which lifts so shyly her veil,

Jeweled and odorous ;

Nor will I sing of voluptuous Summer,

Charming with her vague discourse when the birds have

sunk into silence, Nor celebrate the beauty of bough-bending Autumn, Rich caparisoned, whirling the painted leaves about, Like a strong youth at play ; nor honest Winter, The mimicry to man of immaculate Death. I will not tell of the great playground. While you, my little children, know it not But look continually downward into a grave.

I will sing a psalm of affliction and of tears.

I will sing a dirge of darkest night

When the stars hide their faces before the thunder.

I will chant a paean of vengeance and of deluge.

Against the sky, I see Justice

On a skyey crag, holding his sword, motionless, point

down ; Not yet uplifted. Here in the wilderness, in the lonely abode of meditation

and unannoyed of men. Let me speak so men must listen ; Those who buzz this little hour, and those to come.

TRUTH: Speak, Poet. They will listen.

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