Glow-worms, they shone—
Strange, spectral-gleaming through the lonely dark.
Whose nameless dust did each faint glimmer mark—
Skull, crumbling bone?
Ah, the Dead knew!
The grateful Dead, far-called from voids of space,
Each by the tiny spark that gave him grace,
Watched, the night through.
ALONG THE TRACK
THE track has led me out beyond the town
To follow day across the waning fields,
The crisping weeds and wastes of tender brown.
On either side the feathered tops are high,
A tracery of broken arabesques
Upon the sullen crimson of the sky.
Into the west the narrowing rails are sped.
They cut the crayon softness of the dusk
With thin converging gleams of bloody red.
A PLACE OF DREAMS
HERE will we drink content, comrade of mine—
Here, where the little stream, to meet the sun,
Flows down a yellow rock like yellow wine.