32
TAMARACK BLUE
High on a lift of buoyant homing wind,Before a blast of whistling lead, careers,Hovers bewildered, and, crumpling up its wings,Plummets to earth, to lie upon the dustA bleeding thing suffused with anguish, broken.At last she gathered the remnants of her strength;Huddling within her corner, stoic, cold,And burying her head within her cowl,She parried all the gimlet eyes that stroveTo penetrate the shadows to her mood.And when the curé lifted up his handsAnd blessed his flock, the derelict went shufflingAlong the aisle and vanished in the mistOf Lac la Croix.
Some untoward circumstanceStifled my breath—perhaps the atmosphere,The fetid body-odors in the room.I hurried from the hall to sun-washed air.Bridling my sorrel mare, I found the trailThat skirts the mossy banks of Stonybrook,And cantered homeward to all the kindred-folkThat ever wait my coming with high heart:My setter bitch asprawl beside the door,
