Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/92

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Once with millstones crushed their maize,Baked them tiles to pave their ways,Ate from silver, drank from glass—All is lost in sand, alas!
Is it so? Did thousands dieWhen the buran lifted highDesert dunes to storm their doors,Slaying through the streets and floors?Crept a few at length to lightThrough those days the sand made night,Wild with wind, and beasts that ranScreaming out of Borasan?Did they crawl they knew not where,Wear away from what they were,Rudely learn to live again,Rived from trade and art and men?All they gathered, all they knew,Did it die as raindrops do,Leaving only maize and sheep,Toil and huts of reed and sleep?Back again where life beganGrope thy people, Borasan?
The MeasureFrank Ernest Hill


UPPER AIR
High, pale, imperial places of slow cloudAnd windless wells of sun-swept silence . . . SenseOf some aware, half scornful permanencePast which we flow like water that is loudA moment 'gainst the granite. Nothing hereBeats to the quick deed that we left below,That was a flame; this is the soul of snowImmortalized in moveless atmosphere.

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