Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/190

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So they will pass their days,Fostering a child or two, giving namesOf half-remembered music, clamor, sound;Over hunched shoulders peering roundFor cold that creeping comes;Over and over saying tropic words,And calling babies after jungle birds.
They will be cheered with each new child,And the wierdPall of the sky and the wildTangle of hooped moons piledLike rubbish in the pallid westWon't trouble them so muchWith what they feared,They'll touchCautiously their children and their lovers, clutchAnything alive.
Not to give inMen will go on,Cold to the chin,Light-stepping for fearFeeling the thinIce of the air crack under the weightOf feather-poised earth, and the nearNuzzle of snow and the wind's spear.
Smoke from fireAnd ice's smoke,Lunge together,Fight and choke,Plunge and throttle and fight, and allBlue smoke vanishes. Ashes fall.
Some will call the skimming planets, cranesGoing south for winter, nothing more,And some will sow the icy fields with grains,Search barren pools,Harvest sea-weed, plant a pebble, orPlough snow with patient tools.

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