Page:The Dial (Volume 68).djvu/860

Bitter going, for the path
weighs one down, the frozen wind,
and the coming night and the bitterness
of distance . . . On the white path
the trunks of frustrate trees show black,
on the distant mountains
there is gold and blood. The sun dies . . .

What do you seek,
poet, in the sunset?

Silver hills and grey ploughed lands,
violet outcroppings of rock
through which the Duero traces
its curve like a cross-bow
about Soria,
dark oak-woods, wild cliffs,
bald peaks,
and the white roads and the aspens of the river.

Afternoons of Soria, mystic and warlike,
to-day I am very sad for you,
sadness of love,
Fields of Soria,
where it seems that the rocks dream,
come with me! Violet rocky outcroppings,
silver hills and grey ploughed lands.

We think to create festivals
of love out of our love,
to burn new incense
on untrodden mountains;