Then folks began to read old books forbidden. Carpenters orated and expatiated On Orphic doctrines and wisdoms long hidden, A Swede who couldn't speak began to talk Greek. There were meetings in the park from dawn to dark. And wild talk of razing the village, effacing The plain little houses and the town replacing With carved stone, columns and temples gracing Gardens and vistas the water front embracing. And others would create a brand new state. So fire broke out in the strangest places. The belated traveler beheld elfin faces Springing from nothing, to vanish in a second. Potatoes unthrown went whizzing round corners. Voices were heard and white fingers beckoned, Till all the wise ones, doubters and scorners Although they winced, in some way evinced That their minds were convinced. Something was wrong, The evidence was strong, The air was full of song: You woke out of sleep and heard a violin, A harp or a horn; And rose up and followed the sound growing thin At the break of morn. V Music, music, music was blown Over the waters, out of the woodlands, Grassy valleys and sunny meadow lands In the mid spaces, tone on tone. The pasturing flocks were sleeker grown And multiplied in a way unknown.... And little Alice bright of eye Dreamed and began to prophesy: And said the strayer, the cornet player, Who took Starling Turner's wife away, Is coming back at an early day: Look out, said Alice, to Imogene, Red-lipped, bright-eyed, turned eighteen, You have danced too much on the village green. Look out for the cornet player, I mean. I know who he is for my eyes are keen. Your blood is desiring, but yet serene. I know his face and his bright desire, Laurel leaves are around his brow; He carries a horn, but sometimes a lyre. His eyes are blue and his face is fire. Look out, said Alice, his touch is dire, Keep to the house, or the church's spire. VI And what was next? The girl disappeared. As Alice feared, no fate interfered. A posse collected, hunted and peered, Raced through the night till their eyes were bleared, And looked for Imogene, cried and cheered When a clew was found, or a doubt was cleared. A posse with pitch-forks, scythes and axes, Shot-guns, pistols, knives and rifles, Hunts for Imogene, never relaxes, Runs over meadows for luring trifles: The wave of grain or a weed that tosses; And curse and say what a terrible loss is Come to Spring Lake: a wife's enticed, And then this fairest maid is abducted. Why are the innocent sacrificed? We are a people well conducted. What is the curse, or is it the war?