Puslapio vaizdai
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hemist of morrows am I.
IC Here in my crucible seething lie .

Bloods of the proudest worth
Fused with the bloom of a new-found earth.
Oh, rare is the stuff of creation that bides rebirth
At the touch of my quickening art!
Here's blood that was warmed in Tolstoy's heart;
Blood from the chalice of Shakspere's brain,
From the knee that rebelled at obeisance vain
When Luther rose up from friar, meek,
To captain of souls on the Roman stair.
These drops, behold! once ebbed from the cheek
Of the loved apostle when heaven's smile
Lit the lone beach of Patmos Isle.
Here's blood that danced in the ageless Greek
At the Parthenon's brow as he filleted there
Those sculptures blithe
Whose adamant youth should dull the eternal scythe.
Such drops for my crucible flow from the veins of time's deathless men;
And what blood has accomplished, lo! blood may accomplish again.
Nay, here in my crucible's glow
Shall it accomplish yet more.
Beauty and strength it shall know
Fairer, more potent, than bore
Fire to its current before-
Beauty of cavern and island
New to the ancient world;
Grandeur of prairie and cañon and highland,
Glory of floods from the glacial sky-land
Suddenly down to the summer hurled.
And splendors unseen shall it know,

DECORATIONS BY CHARLES S. CHAPMAN

Of faith in fraternity's powers,
Of trust that out of these calyx hours
Shall blossom the perfect day.

p! here to my hand are the bloods of the monarchs of

time;
Lo! here to my hand, new wonders of earth and mere,
And a far-eyed faith in freedom's millennial year.
Now each, as I fuse it to other in pairing rhyme,
Shall utter a strain attuned to the Pleiades' chime-
A strain for the men of happier morrows to hear
On loftier heights of the soul, in a purer clime.

songful blood of the German land, 10 Shall I mix you with breath of the peaks that stand

Gazing forth to the line of my sunset strand?

hen the gods were young and earth's matins were rung,
Full rudely young Siegfrieds hunting-horn
Staggered the toy Teutonic hills
And mocked at the Baltic plain forlorn.
It were fitter far, had his guiding Norn
Shown him a more heroic bourn,
Led the hero where yet there thrills
Through groves of a thousand Yggdrasils
The sparkle and glow of the first California morn.

Ind to-morrow, where icy Sierran towers
A Chime my western Valhalla's hours,

Shall a greater than Wagner, the lyre-hearted,
In music eternize the gods departed ?
Shall flame to his singing a magic pyre
On deep-cleft Yosemite's mad sheer verge?
Shall drift to him, over the undulant irge
Of the cataract-giants' tempestuous choir,
Rampings and rumblings of dragon ire,
The laugh of the daughters
Of dancing waters,
A swooping of valkyrs, a sunset dirge
At the bier of a dusk-wrapped demiurge?

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On star-roofed hill,
In the smudge of a hovels peaty smoke,
Or to wander afar in the path of the gleam
And visit the fairy-folk.
ut what of the poems that wait him within
The maze of my glamourous marshes of Glynn?
Here is the poet's own place
Where the salt creeks interlace,
Closed by the cloisters of vine and of oak
That chrismed the young barďs mouth
Whose spirit was clear to divine,
Whose breath was sweet to evoke,
The flute-notes, crystalline,
Which opened the song of the South.
lain heroes and homespun saviours of old,
P With the blood of your deep-hidden hearts of gold

Shall I mingle the soul of a land like you-
A land that can hide the solemn pride
Of earth-heavens under its grasses blue?
And with these shall I mix the bold airs of democracy,

blest,
That blow in the brotherly vale where East meets

West? ar beneath furrow and wold, FlStygian river and hill

,
Hid in the breast of Kentucky, unfold
To the eye alert and the steadfast will.
There is a city of wide-domed halls,
Colored and carved; the crusted walls
Bear frescos flushed with the alpenglow,
Bear statues kin to the sculpture agleam
In the halls of the blessèd when sculptors dream.
A temple of marble is there whose white-robed

pinnacles seem
Like choristers voicing a strain too rare
For the grosser ears of the world to share;
While the little blind waterfall's tremolo,
As it cheers the dim journey to Lethe's stream,
Startles the still oratorio.

Oreat-heart Kentucky, whose common crust

Holds for my children such splendors in trust,
Ere your sun be set shall you beget
Some child of as deep-hearted likeness to you
As ever the land of Jeanne d'Arc knew?
Or, in caverns of sleep more wild and deep
Than the path of a meteor's earthward leap,
Shall you rouse from his inter-vital rest
Some Barbarossa of the West?
Aye, Kentucky! And this were best,
That you fare but forward as you began
When you rocked on your gaunt and hollow breast
The deepest-hearted American."

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