Neihardt meanwhile had been going deeper into folk-lore, the results of which appeared in _The Song of Hugh Glass_ (1915) and _The Song of Three Friends_ (1919). The latter, in 1920, divided the annual prize offered by the Poetry Society, halving the honors with Gladys Cromwell’s _Poems_. These two of Neihardt’s are detailed long poems, part of a projected epic series celebrating the winning of the West by the pioneers. What prevents both volumes from fulfilling the breadth at which they aim is the disparity between the author’s story and his style; essentially racy narratives are recited in an archaic and incongruous speech. Yet, in spite of a false rhetoric and a locution that considers prairies and trappers in terms of “Ilion,” “Iseult,” “Clotho,” the “dim far shore of Styx,” Neihardt has achieved his effects with no little skill. Dramatic, stern, and conceived with a powerful dignity, his major works are American in feeling if not in execution. WHEN I AM DEAD When I am dead and nervous hands have thrust My body downward into careless dust; I think the grave cannot suffice to hold My spirit ’prisoned in the sunless mould! Some subtle memory of you shall be A resurrection of the life of me. Yea, I shall be, because I love you so, The speechless spirit of all things that grow. You shall not touch a flower but it shall be Like a caress upon the cheek of me. I shall be patient in the common grass That I may feel your footfall when you pass. I shall be kind as rain and pure as dew, A loving spirit ’round the life of you. When your soft cheeks by perfumed winds are fanned, ’Twill be my kiss—and you will understand. But when some sultry, storm-bleared sun has set, _I will be lightning if you dare forget_! CRY OF THE PEOPLE[38] Tremble before thy chattels, Lords of the scheme of things! Fighters of all earth’s battles, Ours is the might of kings! Guided by seers and sages, The world’s heart-beat for a drum, Snapping the chains of ages, Out of the night we come! Lend us no ear that pities! Offer no almoner’s hand! Alms for the builders of cities! When will you understand? Down with your pride of birth And your golden gods of trade! A man is worth to his mother, Earth, All that a man has made!