Save for one spot untouched by plow
Where two rocks meet on the hillside’s brow.
“Habberton, lend me your powder horn!
For barren rocks I’ll promise you corn!”
Answered Habberton, heavy of hand,
“I do as I please with my own land!”
And he strikes the stones with his oaken stick,
And a strange sound rings—and his smile turns sick.
III
The new years pass like a quick-turned page,