Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/168
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Then from the swale, where shadows pranced grotesquely
Solemn, like phantom puppets on a string,
A cry—pointed, brittle, perpendicular—
As startling as a thin stiff blade of ice
Laid swift and sharp on fever-burning flesh:
The tremulous wail of a lonely shivering wolf,
Piercing the world's great heart like an icy sword. . .
Solemn, like phantom puppets on a string,
A cry—pointed, brittle, perpendicular—
As startling as a thin stiff blade of ice
Laid swift and sharp on fever-burning flesh:
The tremulous wail of a lonely shivering wolf,
Piercing the world's great heart like an icy sword. . .
"Look! . . . Quick! . . . Ah-déek! . . . Somebody's dere! . . .
Ain't? . . . He's come—he's come for me—for me!
Me—me, I go! . . . . . . . My Caribou . . .
Dose fire—dose fire she's going out—she's cold . . .
T'row—t'row on dose knots of pine . . . Meegwétch! . . .
And pull 'way from dose flame—dose pan of sour-dough,
If you want eat—in de morning—damn-good flapjack . . .
Ain't? . . . He's come—he's come for me—for me!
Me—me, I go! . . . . . . . My Caribou . . .
Dose fire—dose fire she's going out—she's cold . . .
T'row—t'row on dose knots of pine . . . Meegwétch! . . .
And pull 'way from dose flame—dose pan of sour-dough,
If you want eat—in de morning—damn-good flapjack . . .
"Sh-sh-sh-sh! . . . Somet'ing's dere! . . . You hear-um? . . . ain't? . . .
Somebody—somebody's dere, calling . . . calling . . .
I go . . . I go—me! . . . me . . . I go...".
Somebody—somebody's dere, calling . . . calling . . .
I go . . . I go—me! . . . me . . . I go...".
III: TALKING WATERS
O eagle whose whistling wings have known the lift
Of high mysterious hands, and the wild sweet music
Of big winds among the ultimate stars,
The black-robes put you in a box of God,
Seeking in honest faith and holy zeal
To lay upon your lips new songs, to swell
The chorus of amens and hallelujahs.
O bundle of copper bones tossed in a hole,
Here in the place-of-death—God's fenced-in ground—
O eagle whose whistling wings have known the lift
Of high mysterious hands, and the wild sweet music
Of big winds among the ultimate stars,
The black-robes put you in a box of God,
Seeking in honest faith and holy zeal
To lay upon your lips new songs, to swell
The chorus of amens and hallelujahs.
O bundle of copper bones tossed in a hole,
Here in the place-of-death—God's fenced-in ground—
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