[This and the other poems that follow have been found in
files of The Rolling Stone, in the Houston Post's Postscripts
and in manuscript. There are many others, but these few have been selected
rather arbitrarily, to round out this
collection.]
THE PEWEE
In the hush of the drowsy afternoon,
When the very wind
on the breast of June
Lies settled, and hot white tracery
Of the
shattered sunlight filters free
Through the unstinted leaves to the pied
cool sward;
On a dead tree branch sings the saddest bard
Of the birds that be;
'Tis the lone
Pewee.
Its note is a sob, and its note is pitched
In a single
key, like a soul bewitched
To a mournful
minstrelsy.
"Pewee, Pewee," doth it ever cry;
A sad, sweet
minor threnody
That threads the aisles of the dim hot grove
Like a tale of a wrong or a vanished love;
And the fancy
comes that the wee dun bird
Perchance was a maid, and her heart was
stirred
By some lover's rhyme
In a golden time,
And broke when the world turned false
and cold;
And her dreams grew dark and her faith grew cold
In some fairy far-off clime.
And her soul crept into
the Pewee's breast;
And forever she cries with a strange unrest
For
something lost, in the afternoon;
For something missed from the lavish
June;
For the heart that died in the long ago;
For the livelong pain
that pierceth so:
Thus the Pewee cries,
While the evening lies
Steeped in the languorous still
sunshine,
Rapt, to the leaf and the bough and the vine
Of some hopeless paradise.
NOTHING TO SAY
"You can tell your paper," the great man said,
"I refused an interview.
I have nothing to say on the
question, sir;
Nothing to say to you."
And
then he talked till the sun went down
And the chickens
went to roost;
And he seized the collar of the poor young
man,
And never his hold he loosed.
And the
sun went down and the moon came up,
And he talked till the
dawn of day;
Though he said, "On this subject mentioned by
you,
I have nothing whatever to say."
And
down the reporter dropped to sleep
And flat on the floor
he lay;
And the last he heard was the great man's words,
"I have nothing at all to say."
THE MURDERER
"I push my boat among the reeds;
I sit
and stare about;
Queer slimy things crawl through the
weeds,
Put to a sullen rout.
I paddle under
cypress trees;
All fearfully I peer
Through oozy
channels when the breeze
Comes rustling at my
ear.
"The long moss hangs perpetually;
Gray
scalps of buried years;
Blue crabs steal out and stare at
me,
And seem to gauge my fears;
I start to hear
the eel swim by;
I shudder when the
crane
Strikes at his prey; I turn to fly,
At
drops of sudden rain.
"In every little cry of bird
I hear a tracking shout;
From every sodden leaf that's
stirred
I see a face frown out;
My soul shakes
when the water rat
Cowed by the blue snake
flies;
Black knots from tree holes glimmer at
Me
with accusive eyes.
"Through all the murky silence
rings
A cry not born of earth;
An endless, deep,
unechoing thing
That owns not human birth.
I see
no colors in the sky
Save red, as blood is
red;
I pray to God to still that cry
From pallid
lips and dead.
"One spot in all that stagnant waste
I shun as moles shun light,
And turn my prow to make all
haste
To fly before the night.
A poisonous mound
hid from the sun,
Where crabs hold
revelry;
Where eels and fishes feed upon
The
Thing that once was He.
"At night I steal along the
shore;
Within my hut I creep;
But awful stars
blink through the door,
To hold me from my
sleep.
The river gurgles like his throat,
In
little choking coves,
And loudly dins that phantom note
From out the awful groves.
"I shout with laughter
through the night:
I rage in greatest glee;
My
fears all vanish with the light
Oh! splendid nights they
be!
I see her weep; she calls his name;
He
answers not, nor will;
My soul with joy is all aflame;
I laugh, and laugh, and thrill.
"I count her
teardrops as they fall;
I flout my daytime
fears;
I mumble thanks to God for all
These
gibes and happy jeers.
But, when the warning dawn awakes,
Begins my wandering;
With stealthy strokes through
tangled brakes,
A wasted, frightened
thing."
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