Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/45

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Who can say,the broken ridge of the hillswas the line of a lover's shoulder,his arm-turn, the path to the hills,the sudden leap and swift thunderof mountain-boulders his laugh.
She was mad—as no priest, no lover's cultcould grant madness;the wine that entered her heartwith the touch of the mountain-rockswas white, intoxicant:she, the lithe and remote,was betrayed by the glintof light on the hills,the granite splinters of rock,the touch of the stonewhere heat meltstoward the shadow-side of the rocks.
The DialH. D.


FRANCESCA (1904—1917)
I.
Sweet of the dawn is she!Sure of her garlands fair,Sure of her morning brief,With what an airShe hands EternityA bud, a leaf!

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