Far out on the roaring red Firing Line.
HOW OSWALD DINED WITH GOD
By Edwin Markham
Over Northumbria’s lone, gray lands,
Over the frozen marl,
Went flying the fogs from the fens and sands,
And the wind with a wolfish snarl.
Frosty and stiff by the York wall
Stood the rusty grass and the yarrow:
Gone wings and songs to the southland, all—