Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/191

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And they will never cease to look for spring,Climb endless hills,And turn from east to west and west to east,Imagining the leastShreds of far color,Supposing that they feelWarmth on their faces, following the wheel,Circling on its axis, search the skyFor sign of thaw, or rain or any change,Looking for birds, where only dead stars flyAnd calling snows and deepening snow-falls, strange.
In tightening silence, they will search for sound,Beneath the smother of the sky,Find tangled iron, as the first men foundIron and more than mortal sinew in the ground.
And they will worship symbols of sure things,Sure things, and tangible, cut clear,Forgetting rust, they will keep iron near,And try to pour into an iron mould,The past's white fire perishing with cold.
And out of iron's touch upon their palmsWill come a song,And they will seize stone hammers, make a clang,Sing as they never sang,Wild, assaulting, strong,(Clang, cold, clang).Stone on stone with iron bitsClamped together (Clang, clang),Iron twisted till it fits,Notched and jammed and bolted fast,Rearing heavily and slowOne monument against snow,A monument to last, a tomb to holdYellow pollen of all past,Against the cold.

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