I have followed all night in the hills, And my breath is deep, But she flies on before like a voice In the vale of sleep. I follow the print of her feet In the wild river bed, And lo, she calls gleefully down From a cliff overhead. A Cry in the Night Wail, wail, wail, For the fleering world goes down: Into the song of the poet pale Mixes the laugh of the clown. Grim, grim, grim, Is the road we go to the dead; Yet we must on, for a Something dim Pushes the soul ahead. Where, where, where, Through the dust and shadow of things Will the fleeing Fates with their wild manes bear These tribes of slaves and kings? Fays One secret night, I stood where ocean pours Eternal waters on the yellow shores, And saw the drift of fays that Prosper saw: (Their feet had no more sound than blowing straw.) And little hands held light in little hands They chased a fleeing billow down the sands, But turned in the nick o’ time, and mad with glee Raced back again before the swelling sea. In Death Valley There came gray stretches of volcanic plains, Bare, lone and treeless, then a bleak lone hill, Like to the dolorous hill that Dobell saw. Around were heaps of ruins piled between The Burn o’ Sorrow and the Water o’ Care; And from the stillness of the down-crushed walls One pillar rose up dark against the moon. There was a nameless Presence everywhere; In the gray soil there was a purple stain, And the gray reticent rocks were dyed with blood-- Blood of a vast unknown Calamity. It was the mark of some ancestral grief-- Grief that began before the ancient Flood. At Dawn Just then the branches lightly stirred.... See, out o’ the apple boughs a bird Bursts music-mad into the blue abyss: Rothschild would give his gold for this-- The wealth of nations, if he knew: (And find a profit in the business, too.) “Follow Me” O friend, we never choose the better part, Until we set the Cross up in the heart. I know I can not live until I die-- Till I am nailed upon it wild and high, And sleep in the tomb for a full three days dead, With angels at the feet and at the head. But then in a great brightness I shall rise To walk with stiller feet below the skies. In Poppy Fields Here the poppy hosts assemble: How they startle, how they tremble! All their royal hoods unpinned Blow out lightly in the wind. Here is gold to labor for; Here is pillage worth a war. Men that in the cities grind, Come! before the heart is blind. The Joy of the Hills