Page:The roamer and other poems (1920).djvu/122

112 Southward a canyon in the hollow hills,

Deep-sunken, o'er whose pink and yellow crags

Rose spires of tree-tops, rooted far below;

Sea-like, with heavenly straits, the distance shone

Far off, and melted into phantom lands,

Desert depressions, lost in filmy air.

"Yon is the gate, and narrow is the way,"

The old man, hastening, spoke; and from his lips

Dropped but few words, or none, as time were scant;

Till at the cleft arrived, "Descend," he bade,

"Only the desert hath reality.

Now on the border long I range denied.

So heavy-laden am I with the weight

Of earthly thought; the wisdom of the poor

Shall light thee onward to thy journey's end.

Blessèd art thou!" Dumbly he bowed his head;

As one abandoned, on the light he loomed;

And something in the old man's attitude

And gesture made the Roamer to refrain

His farewell word; he down the dark defile

Sank silent and his silence courtesy was.

On the steep slope of an immense ravine

Profound, dividing upon either hand

Green ehasms of the valley canyon-walled,

He found himself; a moment yet he saw