Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/217
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Or so its seemed to her. "It's nearly ten;
An hour, and it should clear the horizon haze,
Squatting right above Sand Mountain, Then
It's ours, if the cloudy August heaven plays
No tricks." He held a tree-trunk close, instead
Of something longed for; she leaned in a daze,
Smoothing her knees as if it had been a head.
An hour, and it should clear the horizon haze,
Squatting right above Sand Mountain, Then
It's ours, if the cloudy August heaven plays
No tricks." He held a tree-trunk close, instead
Of something longed for; she leaned in a daze,
Smoothing her knees as if it had been a head.
"A visitor," he thought aloud, "who takes
One burning, scornful look, and never more.
He leaves to flutter over Andean lakes,
To halve the sky of some lost, jungled shore,
To flame with the Southern Cross and Sirius,
Raining hot madness on lush midnight brakes,
Gilding chill seas, frigid, unamorous."
One burning, scornful look, and never more.
He leaves to flutter over Andean lakes,
To halve the sky of some lost, jungled shore,
To flame with the Southern Cross and Sirius,
Raining hot madness on lush midnight brakes,
Gilding chill seas, frigid, unamorous."
She pondered. "You have seen him?" "Once," he said,
"As I saw Mercury once, a golden bubble
Poised just above the dawn's disheveled bed,
For one pale glimpse." Her fingers clutched the stubble
Lying beneath them, clawed it from its home;
She held her voice level with much trouble.
"What are the stars but flecks of fiery foam—"
"As I saw Mercury once, a golden bubble
Poised just above the dawn's disheveled bed,
For one pale glimpse." Her fingers clutched the stubble
Lying beneath them, clawed it from its home;
She held her voice level with much trouble.
"What are the stars but flecks of fiery foam—"
"What are the stars but sources of that flame
That burns and scorches in the stifling sun,
That flares in us—"His gesturing fingers came
Across hers suddenly, trembled, as if to run
In panic from a long suspected danger,
Then calmed into a hot oblivion,
Clasping her own, knowing her hand no stranger.
That burns and scorches in the stifling sun,
That flares in us—"His gesturing fingers came
Across hers suddenly, trembled, as if to run
In panic from a long suspected danger,
Then calmed into a hot oblivion,
Clasping her own, knowing her hand no stranger.
The night's mysterious wings pulsed through the dark,
The night's mysterious noises cracked and shivered,
And where their fingers met a visible spark
Seemed to leap forth at them, and pulsed and quivered
The night's mysterious noises cracked and shivered,
And where their fingers met a visible spark
Seemed to leap forth at them, and pulsed and quivered
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