Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/191

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And they will never cease to look for spring,
Climb endless hills,
And turn from east to west and west to east,
Imagining the least
Shreds of far color,
Supposing that they feel
Warmth on their faces, following the wheel,
Circling on its axis, search the sky
For sign of thaw, or rain or any change,
Looking for birds, where only dead stars fly
And calling snows and deepening snow-falls, strange.

In tightening silence, they will search for sound,
Beneath the smother of the sky,
Find tangled iron, as the first men found
Iron and more than mortal sinew in the ground.

And they will worship symbols of sure things,
Sure things, and tangible, cut clear,
Forgetting rust, they will keep iron near,
And try to pour into an iron mould,
The past's white fire perishing with cold.

And out of iron's touch upon their palms
Will come a song,
And they will seize stone hammers, make a clang,
Sing as they never sang,
Wild, assaulting, strong,
(Clang, cold, clang).
Stone on stone with iron bits
Clamped together (Clang, clang),
Iron twisted till it fits,
Notched and jammed and bolted fast,
Rearing heavily and slow
One monument against snow,
A monument to last, a tomb to hold
Yellow pollen of all past,
Against the cold.

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