Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/217

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Or so its seemed to her. "It's nearly ten;An hour, and it should clear the horizon haze,Squatting right above Sand Mountain, ThenIt's ours, if the cloudy August heaven playsNo tricks." He held a tree-trunk close, insteadOf something longed for; she leaned in a daze,Smoothing her knees as if it had been a head.
"A visitor," he thought aloud, "who takesOne burning, scornful look, and never more.He leaves to flutter over Andean lakes,To halve the sky of some lost, jungled shore,To flame with the Southern Cross and Sirius,Raining hot madness on lush midnight brakes,Gilding chill seas, frigid, unamorous."
She pondered. "You have seen him?" "Once," he said,"As I saw Mercury once, a golden bubblePoised just above the dawn's disheveled bed,For one pale glimpse." Her fingers clutched the stubbleLying beneath them, clawed it from its home;She held her voice level with much trouble."What are the stars but flecks of fiery foam—"
"What are the stars but sources of that flameThat burns and scorches in the stifling sun,That flares in us—"His gesturing fingers cameAcross hers suddenly, trembled, as if to runIn panic from a long suspected danger,Then calmed into a hot oblivion,Clasping her own, knowing her hand no stranger.
The night's mysterious wings pulsed through the dark,The night's mysterious noises cracked and shivered,And where their fingers met a visible sparkSeemed to leap forth at them, and pulsed and quivered

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