“Thou hast made us humble, idle, futile peaks.   “Thous only needest eternal patience;   “We bow to Thy wisdom, O Lord—   “Humble, idle, futile peaks.”  In the night Grey heavy clouds muffles the valleys, And the peaks looked toward God alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top. Blood—blood and torn grass— Had marked the rise of his agony— This lone hunter. The grey-green woods impassive Had watched the threshing of his limbs. A canoe with flashing paddle, A girl with soft searching eyes, A call: “John!” . . . . . . . Come, arise, hunter! Can you not hear? The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The impact of a dollar upon the heart Smiles warm red light, Sweeping from the hearth rosily upon the white table, With the hanging cool velvet shadows Moving softly upon the door. The impact of a million dollars Is a crash of flunkys, And yawning emblems of Persia Cheeked against oak, France and a sabre, The outcry of old beauty Whored by pimping merchants To submission before wine and chatter. Silly rich peasants stamp the carpets of men, Dead men who dreamed fragrance and light Into their woof, their lives; The rug of an honest bear Under the feet of a cryptic slave Who speaks always 

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