Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/288

260 This Brook of Shadows, whose dark waters purled

Solace to his deep mind, it felt his smile—

Haunted, and melancholy, and remote.

LATE SUMMER

AN HOUR IN A STUDIO

picture was a painted memory

Of the far plains he loved, and of their life,—

Weird, mystical, dark, inarticulate,—

And cities hidden high against the blue,

Whose sky-hung steps one Indian could guard.

The enchanted Mesa there its fated wall

Lifted, and all its story lived again—

How, in the happy planting time, the strong

Went down to push the seeds into the sand,

Leaving the old and sick. Then reeled the world

And toppled to the plain the perilous path.

Death climbed another way to them who stayed.

He showed us pictured thirst, a dreadful sight;

And many tales he told that might have come,

Brought by some planet-wanderer—fresh from Mars,

Or from the silver deserts of the moon.