THE WORD MAKER
123
Threading the pathways of the vale a hundred fire-flies grew
'Twas where the wandering tribesmen couched amid the leaves and dew.
A burst of rude sound split the night, the snap of flint on flint,
But close he pressed the tangled roots among the flattened mint.
'Twas where the wandering tribesmen couched amid the leaves and dew.
A burst of rude sound split the night, the snap of flint on flint,
But close he pressed the tangled roots among the flattened mint.
He saw his flaccid useless hand, his withered palsied limb,
And all the night, as all the day, was desolate to him.
Outcast, a foolish feeble thing . . . with foolish babbling tongue
As empty as a barren breast where only beads are hung.
And all the night, as all the day, was desolate to him.
Outcast, a foolish feeble thing . . . with foolish babbling tongue
As empty as a barren breast where only beads are hung.
The maid who wore the eagle's plume had gibed at him that day,
Her smooth flank softer than a flower against the granite's grey;
A doddering witch had bade him in, and mocked his helpless hate
With jest, that she of all the tribe was fittest for his mate.
Her smooth flank softer than a flower against the granite's grey;
A doddering witch had bade him in, and mocked his helpless hate
With jest, that she of all the tribe was fittest for his mate.
He lay and wept upon his face along the brown hillside.
But Thought crept up the silvered slope and from the river's tide,
Thought of the things that are not war, nor kissing of a maid;
And something moved and strove for birth and clamoured for his aid!
But Thought crept up the silvered slope and from the river's tide,
Thought of the things that are not war, nor kissing of a maid;
And something moved and strove for birth and clamoured for his aid!
