They have come down astride their bony nags
In the gaunt hours when the lean young day
Walks the grey ridge, and cool light flags
Smooth-bodied poplars piercing a hollow sky.
They have come forth against the day’s down-curving
From wall-darkened beds where a child’s breathing
Flows beyond measure with the crickets’ chirping,
Or cicadas’ song in seventeenth year spawning,
Greeting the earth before the leprous mist
Melts in the sun’s bronze weaving.
They are uprisen with the strong and fleet
Whose footsteps weave no trace in aftergrass,
Forth with broadax and with adz and froe
Where forests edge the ancient wilderness,
To hew and flay among the patriarchs
And bring their strength and agèd glory low.
Upon broad hills their scythes are swinging,
In the high fields severing vine and stalk,
The blade’s arched stroke is wildly singing
A song echoing from earth’s dull throat.
A sweep of years will bring them all to lie
Wrapped in strange flowering of earth and sky.
Starveling trees bear so sweet a fruit
Along the shallow amblings of Squabble Creek,
Down the prisoned waters of Troublesome:
Spring tides surging to the naked root
Have carved a road for wheel and hoof,
And writ their passage on the living rock.
Down the broad hills earth-born lays are sung,
Sweet as a lark’s song whispered down the wind—
Never the free shall know a stricken tongue.