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 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 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. . . .
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. . . .
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