Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/124

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Six months to reach Wyoming,"Hold up, paint horse, herd the little dogies,Over the lone prairie."Bones of dead steers,Bones of cowboys,Under the wheat, maybe.
The sky-scraper sings another way,A tune of steel, of wheels, of gold.And the ginger breeze blows all dayTanged with flowers and mold.And the Texas sky whirls down, whirls down,Taking long looks at the fussy town.An old sky and a long plainBeyond, beyond, my bridle-rein.
The New RepublicAmy Lowell


FLUTE-PRIEST SONG FOR RAIN
Ceremonial at the Sun Spring
Whistle under the water,Make the water bubble to the tones of the flute.I call the bluebirds' song into the water:Wee-kee! Wee-kee-kee!Dawn is coming,The morning star shines upon us.Bluebird singing to the West clouds,Bring the humming rain.
Water-rattles shake,Flute whistles,Star in Heaven shines.I blow the oriole's song,The yellow song of the North,I call rain clouds with my rattles:Wee-kee-kee, oriole,Pattering rain.

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