Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/91

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Marco Polo went this way . . .
Over tundras, God-enticed,Friars crept to preach their Christ. . . .
Still the camels through the gatesCoughed beneath their swaying freights;Brown-legged boatmen from the streamMade the palace parrots scream,Till the peach and melon landShrank between the seas of sand,Till the sand was drifted, drifted,Slowly through the poplars sifted,Reached at last the river's edge,Slowly builded bar and ledge,Till the crystal ribbon driedTo a crystal thread, and died,And the green of melon plotsAnd the gold of apricotsSank like sunlight into sand—Till the wind upheaved the land,And the earth, that mothered man,Whelmed him there in Borasan.
Northward still the river runsUnsubdued by sand or suns,Northward still the poplars pressOn its living loveliness.Here the reeds are tall in spring,Wild geese mate and finches sing,Here the shepherds drive their sheep,—Build themselves for shade and sleepHuts of woven reeds, and makeOut of maize a simple cake.How to bake and herd and shear,—That is all of knowledge here.Once perhaps their fathers knewPointed roofs of red and blue,

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