Page:The town down the river; a book of poems.djvu/43

 Unsparingly my corn— For a world harvest-haunted And for a world unborn. Meanwhile, am I to view, as at a play, Through smoke the funeral flames of yesterday, And think them far away? Am I to doubt and yet be given to know That where my demon guides me, there I go?— An island? Be it so. For islands, after all is said and done, Tell but a wilder game that was begun, When Fate, the mistress of iniquities, The mad Queen-spinner of all discrepancies, Beguiled the dyers of the dawn that day, And even in such a curst and sodden way Made my three colors one.