Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/145

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AFTER STORM
Was there a wind?Tap . . . . . tap . . .Night pads upon the snowWith moccasined feet,And it is still . . . . so still . . .An eagle's featherMight fall like a stone.
Could there have been a storm,Mad-tossing golden mane     on the neck of the wind—Tearing up the sky,     loose-flapping like a tent     about the ice-capped stars?
Cool, sheer and motionless,The frosted pinesAre jewelled with a million flaming points,That fling their beauty up in long white sheavesTill they catch hands with stars.Could there have been a windThat haled them by the hair,And blindingBlue-forkedFlowers of the lightningIn their leaves?
Tap . . . . tap . . .Slow-ticking centuries . . .Soft as bare feet upon the snow . . .Faint . . . . lulling as heard rain     upon heaped leaves . . .So silence builds her wall     about a dream impaled.
Poetry, A Magazine of VerseLola Ridge

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