THE WORD MAKER
Among the burnt, brown grasses upon the brown hillsideHe lay and dreamed of heroes who by the spear had died.His spirit for the stretch and stir of striving muscles cried,Among the burnt, brown grasses upon the brown hillside.
His shrunken limb forgotten, his wavering hand-thrust lost,He moved, a splendid figure, amid the warring host.The grey wolf watched him from the rock, the eagle soared on high,Till Night, the vulture of the Day, went stealing up the sky.
He woke. The stars were over him. A breath of crushed wild thymeCame like the scented dust of gods from grinding wheels of Time.He woke; and far, and silver white, adown the purple skiesHe saw the ghost-thing of the moon slip out of Paradise.
