ALTYN
51
Whose heart would yield the flower of compassion.
Not even Gentleman Joe, who worked his spells
With fan-tan, chuc-a-luck, and three-card monte,
Suave as the blade of any butter-knife;
Nor even Effie Golden—she of the eyes
As wistful as a mating antelope's—
She of the lips suffused with all the warmth
Of scarlet poppies after rain—Effie,
Nobody's woman, the woman of every man—
Effie, who coiled her undulating white
Of arms about young Calvin McElroy,
Who dubbed himself a circuit-riding parson—
Effie, who breathed a passion on his mouth
That melted his will as a blow-torch melts a candle—
Effie, who poured the poison of her blood
Into his veins, and flung him out in the pink
Of morning, to stagger to his hut, shattered,
Blighted, as when a sound white apple takes
The worm from a rotten apple at its side.
Not even Gentleman Joe, who worked his spells
With fan-tan, chuc-a-luck, and three-card monte,
Suave as the blade of any butter-knife;
Nor even Effie Golden—she of the eyes
As wistful as a mating antelope's—
She of the lips suffused with all the warmth
Of scarlet poppies after rain—Effie,
Nobody's woman, the woman of every man—
Effie, who coiled her undulating white
Of arms about young Calvin McElroy,
Who dubbed himself a circuit-riding parson—
Effie, who breathed a passion on his mouth
That melted his will as a blow-torch melts a candle—
Effie, who poured the poison of her blood
Into his veins, and flung him out in the pink
Of morning, to stagger to his hut, shattered,
Blighted, as when a sound white apple takes
The worm from a rotten apple at its side.
Oh, desert winds fling handfuls of alkali
And dust upon the moldering bones of Altyn;
The face of Yellow Mary Mountain, pocked
And dust upon the moldering bones of Altyn;
The face of Yellow Mary Mountain, pocked
