Where is he now whose eyes swam brighter, Softer than love, in his turbulent charms; Who taught me to strike, and to fall, dear fighter, And gather me up in his boyhood arms; Taught me the rifle, and with me went riding, Suppled my limbs to the horseman’s war; Where is he now, for whom my heart’s biding, Biding, biding—but he rides far! O love that passes the love of woman! Who that hath felt it shall ever forget When the breath of life with a throb turns human, And a lad’s heart is to a lad’s heart set? Ever, forever, lover and rover— They shall cling, nor each from other shall part Till the reign of the stars in the heavens be over, And life is dust in each faithful heart. They are dead, the American grasses under; There is no one now who presses my side; By the African chotts I am riding asunder, And with great joy ride I the last great ride. I am fey; I am fein of sudden dying; Thousands of miles there is no one near; And my heart—all the night it is crying, crying In the bosoms of dead lads darling-dear. Hearts of my music—them dark earth covers; Comrades to die, and to die for, were they; In the width of the world there were no such rovers— Back to back, breast to breast, it was ours to stay; And the highest on earth was the vow that we cherished, To spur forth from the crowd and come back never more, And to ride in the track of great souls perished Till the nests of the lark shall roof us o’er. Yet lingers a horseman on Altai highlands, Who hath joy of me, riding the Tartar glissade, And one, far faring o’er orient islands Whose blood yet glints with my blade’s accolade; North, west, east, I fling you my last hallooing, Last love to the breasts where my own has bled; Through the reach of the desert my soul leaps pursuing My star where it rises a Star of the Dead. GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY THE FLIGHT I O wild heart, track the land’s perfume, Beach-roses and moor-heather! All fragrances of herb and bloom Fail, out at sea, together. O follow where aloft find room Lark-song and eagle-feather! All ecstasies of throat and plume Melt, high on yon blue weather. O leave on sky and ocean lost The flight creation dareth; Take wings of love, that mounts the most: Find fame, that furthest fareth! Thy flight, albeit amid her host Thee, too, night star-like beareth, Flying, thy breast on heaven’s coast, The infinite outweareth. II “Dead o’er us roll celestial fires; Mute stand Earth’s ancient beaches; Old thoughts, old instincts, old desires, The passing hour outreaches; The soul creative never tires— Evokes, adores, beseeches; And that heart most the god inspires Whom most its wildness teaches. “For I will course through falling years And stars and cities burning; And I will march through dying cheers Past empires unreturning; Ever the world flame reappears Where mankind power is earning, The nations’ hopes, the people’s tears, One with the wild heart yearning. GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY