THE WORD MAKER
125
"There is no corner in my tent to plight another troth,
The chosen word I make my bride; I have not bed for both."
And in the throbbing, sultry dawn-a blood clout on the grey—
Within a careless heel-track's groove, an eagle's feather lay.
The chosen word I make my bride; I have not bed for both."
And in the throbbing, sultry dawn-a blood clout on the grey—
Within a careless heel-track's groove, an eagle's feather lay.
Among the fine spring grasses upon the green hill-side,
He dreamed no more of heroes, who on the spear-point died,
Gone back to earth that gave them . . . a dust mote blown in space—
He saw the children of his soul linked through the human race.
He dreamed no more of heroes, who on the spear-point died,
Gone back to earth that gave them . . . a dust mote blown in space—
He saw the children of his soul linked through the human race.
A wrinkled crone went clambering towards the hillside's green;
An amber maid crouched very low the amber reeds between.
An amber maid crouched very low the amber reeds between.
