Part 8 (2/2)

Ghost-kings came headlong, row upon row, G.o.ds of the Indians, torches aglow.

They mounted the bear and the elk and the deer, And eagles gigantic, aged and sere, They rode long-horn cattle, they cried ”A-la-la.”

They lifted the knife, the bow, and the spear, They lifted ghost-torches from dead fires below, The midnight made grand with the cry ”A-la-la.”

The midnight made grand with a red-G.o.d charge, A red-G.o.d show, A red-G.o.d show, ”A-la-la, a-la-la, a-la-la, a-la-la.”

With bodies like bronze, and terrible eyes Came the rank and the file, with catamount cries, Gibbering, yipping, with hollow-skull clacks, Riding white bronchos with skeleton backs, Scalp-hunters, beaded and spangled and bad, Naked and l.u.s.tful and foaming and mad, Flas.h.i.+ng primeval demoniac scorn, Blood-thirst and pomp amid darkness reborn, Power and glory that sleep in the gra.s.s While the winds and the snows and the great rains pa.s.s.

They crossed the gray river, thousands abreast, They rode in infinite lines to the west, Tide upon tide of strange fury and foam, Spirits and wraiths, the blue was their home, The sky was their goal where the star-flags are furled, And on past those far golden splendors they whirled.

They burned to dim meteors, lost in the deep.

And I turned in dazed wonder, thinking of sleep.

And the wind crept by Alone, unkempt, unsatisfied, The wind cried and cried-- Muttered of ma.s.sacres long past, Buffaloes in shambles vast ...

An owl said: ”Hark, what is a-wing?”

I heard a cricket carolling, I heard a cricket carolling, I heard a cricket carolling.

Then ...

Snuffing the lightning that crashed from on high Rose royal old buffaloes, row upon row.

The lords of the prairie came galloping by.

And I cried in my heart ”A-la-la, a-la-la, A red-G.o.d show, A red-G.o.d show, A-la-la, a-la-la, a-la-la, a-la-la.”

Buffaloes, buffaloes, thousands abreast, A scourge and amazement, they swept to the west.

With black bobbing noses, with red rolling tongues, Coughing forth steam from their leather-wrapped lungs, Cows with their calves, bulls big and vain, Goring the laggards, shaking the mane, Stamping flint feet, flas.h.i.+ng moon eyes, Pompous and owlish, s.h.a.ggy and wise.

Like sea-cliffs and caves resounded their ranks With shoulders like waves, and undulant flanks.

Tide upon tide of strange fury and foam, Spirits and wraiths, the blue was their home, The sky was their goal where the star-flags are furled, And on past those far golden splendors they whirled.

They burned to dim meteors, lost in the deep, And I turned in dazed wonder, thinking of sleep.

I heard a cricket's cymbals play, A scarecrow lightly flapped his rags, And a pan that hung by his shoulder rang, Rattled and thumped in a listless way, And now the wind in the chimney sang, The wind in the chimney, The wind in the chimney, The wind in the chimney, Seemed to say:-- ”Dream, boy, dream, If you anywise can.

To dream is the work Of beast or man.

Life is the west-going dream-storm's breath, Life is a dream, the sigh of the skies, The breath of the stars, that nod on their pillows With their golden hair mussed over their eyes.”

The locust played on his musical wing, Sang to his mate of love's delight.

I heard the whippoorwill's soft fret.

I heard a cricket carolling, I heard a cricket carolling, I heard a cricket say: ”Good-night, good-night, Good-night, good-night, ... good-night.”

The Broncho that Would Not Be Broken

A little colt--broncho, loaned to the farm To be broken in time without fury or harm, Yet black crows flew past you, shouting alarm, Calling ”Beware,” with lugubrious singing ...

The b.u.t.terflies there in the bush were romancing, The smell of the gra.s.s caught your soul in a trance, So why be a-fearing the spurs and the traces, O broncho that would not be broken of dancing?

You were born with the pride of the lords great and olden Who danced, through the ages, in corridors golden.

In all the wide farm-place the person most human.

You spoke out so plainly with squealing and capering, With whinnying, snorting, contorting and prancing, As you dodged your pursuers, looking askance, With Greek-footed figures, and Parthenon paces, O broncho that would not be broken of dancing.

The gra.s.shoppers cheered. ”Keep whirling,” they said.

The insolent sparrows called from the shed ”If men will not laugh, make them wish they were dead.”

But arch were your thoughts, all malice displacing, Though the horse-killers came, with snake-whips advancing.

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