Many Many Moons/Of These Four Things I Cannot Write
OF THESE FOUR THINGS I CANNOT WRITE
Of these four Things I cannot write:
After the scourge of the molten sands of the desert,After the sunken hot eyes and the panting tongue,— The thrill of the cool blue springs in the foothills, The cold-fingered dew on the lips parched and blazing, And the silvery tinkle of green glacial waters That sprinkle the throbbing brow. . . .
After the anguish of hot leaden limbs on the portage,After the feverish days over deadland trails,— The repose of the gray-veiled and quiet-eyed twilight, The shimmering haze of the blue mountain valley, And the tranquil blue deep of the pool where tremulous Sleep the calm swimming stars. . . .
After the footfalls of sinister night in the gullies,After the ominous moan of the canyoned winds,— The touch of a quiet gray Presence beside me, The confident sense of Hands hovering about me, And the Call from the hills where the murmurous river Spills over the white cascades. . . .
And when at last, struggling to utterThe cry of these three glories,My pen shall cease to stutter across the page,—Shall be no longer a futile stammering thing,But a burning soul, articulate,—Then I shall sing! Oh, then I shall singOf the glorious whole of these wild splendors!Oh, then I shall sing of the eyes,Of the dusky eyes of a Woman.