Part 9 (2/2)

Hoeet ht!

I want to kiss her warht

How still! I do not hear abuds appear; I hear God in His garden,--hear Hi stars; the s, And pipes on reeds of pleasant things,-- Of splendid proreat South-woman, soon to rise And tiptoe up and loose her hair; Tiptoe, and take frolorious moon to wear!

I

The poet shall create or kill, Bid heroes live, bid braggarts die

I look against a lurid sky,-- My silent South lies proudly still

The lurid light of burning lands Still cli white withered hands; Their eyes are red, their skies are red

Poor man! still boast your bitter wars!

Still burn and burn, and burning die

But God's white finger spins the stars In calht the less Co; No drop of dew nor anything Shall fail for all your bitterness

The land that nursed a nation's youth, Ye burned it, sacked it, sapped it dry

Ye gave it falsehoods for its truth, And fae, is God the less?

The reat sun spill his splendid flame And clothe the world in queenliness

And fro youth shall come Some day, and he shall not be dumb Before the awful court of God

II

The wearypale To hear the stranger's boastful tale Of blood and flalared, Close face to face above that to shared

Again theup so to the patient dead,-- The Creole was as still as they:

”That night we burned yon grass-gron,-- The grasses, vines are reaching up; The ruins they are reaching down, As sun-browned soldiers when they sup

”I knew her,--knew her constancy

She said, this night of every year She here would coht for me