Somebody blew the roof clear off
And the Northern Lights streamed in
Somebody set the saloon on fire
And splashed the walls with gin.
Pitched on his head and widely spread
Lay Anarchist Gon Fanfew
And there with the stranger’s head in her hand
Lay the woman known as Lou.
But The Hill Were Ancient Then
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Now is a summer come out of the sea,
And the hills that were bare are green.
They shower the petals and the bee
On the valleys that laze between.
So it was in the dreaming past,
And life is a shifting maze,
Summer on summer fading fast,
In a mist of yesterdays.
Out of the East, the tang of smoke,
The flight of the startled deer,
A ringing axe the silence broke,
The tread of the pioneer.
Saxon eyes in a weathered face,
Cabins where trees had been,
Hard on the heels of a fading race,
But the hills were ancient then.
Up from the South a haze of dust,
The pack mules' steady pace,
Armor tarnished and red with rust,
Stern eyes in a sun-bronzed face.
The mesquite mocked the flag of Spain,
That the wind flung out again,
The grass bent under the pack mule train—
But the hills were ancient then.
The Chinese Gong
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StrumaSTRUM, struma strum struma strum strum strum!
Roaring out the rally o’er the rumble of the drum!
Talking down the cannon with its boomaloomaboom!
Catchee plentee killee on the river plentee soon!
Shouting down to Canton with the Yellow River scum
Shaking coral buttons in a Holy City room.
Stroomabooma stroomabooma boom boom boom!
Daring decent devils like demoniacal doom.
Soom plentee plunder ‘long the Yellow River’s junks!
Hoomalooma hoomalooma strum stroom strum!
Streaming from the mountains are a million yellow monks.
Sellee loot to Melican and catchee plentee rum.
Yellow feet a-clatter on the clumpy cobbled street
Shouting of the shikars where the shore and river meet.
Roaring at the rumor of a raiding rider seen.
Lanterns in pagodas with a glimmer blue and green.
Sellee loot to Melican, chatchee Hong Kong.
—Yelling tinkling tales to a terrible tong.
Struma strooma strumastrooma kongalongbong!
Listen to the clatter of the Chinese gong.
The Choir Girl
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I have a saintly voice, the people say;
With Elder Blank I send the music winging—
I smile and compliment him on his singing—
By God, I'd rather hear a jackass bray.
I nod and smile to all the pious sisters—
I wish their rears were stung with seven blisters.
That youthful minister, so straight and slim—
I'd trade my soul for one long night with him.
Crete
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The green waves wash above us
Who slumber in the bay
As washed the tide of ages
That swept our race away.
Our cities - dusty ruins;
Our galleys - deep sea slime;
Our very ghosts, forgotten,
Bow to the sweep of Time.
Our land lies stark before it
As we to alien spears,
But, ah, the love we bore it
Outlasts the crawling years.
Ah, jeweled spires at even -
The lute's soft golden sigh -
The Lion-Gates of Knossos
When dawn was in the sky.
Dead Man’s Hate
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They hanged John Farrel in the dawn amid the marketplace;
At dusk came Adam Brand to him and spat upon his face.
"Ho neighbors all," spake Adam Brand, "see ye John Farrel's fate!
"Tis proven here a hempen noose is stronger than man's hate!
For heard ye not John Farrel's vow to be avenged upon me
Come life or death? See how he hangs high on the gallows tree!"
Yet never a word the people spoke, in fear and wild surprise-
For the grisly corpse raised up its head and stared with sightless eyes,
And with strange motions, slow and stiff, pointed at Adam Brand
And clambered down the gibbet tree, the noose within its hand.
With gaping mouth stood Adam Brand like a statue carved of stone,
Till the dead man laid a clammy hand hard on his shoulder bone.
Then Adam shrieked like a soul in hell; the red blood left his face
And he reeled away in a drunken run through the screaming market place;
And close behind, the dead man came with a face like a mummy's mask,
And the dead joints cracked and the stiff legs creaked with their unwonted task.
Men fled before the flying twain or shrank with bated breath,
And they saw on the face of Adam Brand the seal set there by death.
He reeled on buckling legs that failed, yet on and on he fled;
So through the shuddering market-place, the dying fled the dead.
At the riverside fell Adam Brand with a scream that rent the skies;
Across him fell John Farrel's corpse, nor ever the twain did rise.
There was no wound on Adam Brand but his brow was cold and damp,
For the fear of death had blown out his life as a witch blows out a lamp.
His lips were writhed in a horrid grin like a fiend's on Satan's coals,
And the men that looked on his face that day, his stare still haunts their souls.
Such was the fate of Adam Brand, a strange, unearthly fate;
For stronger than death or hempen noose are the fires of a dead man's hate.
The Deed Beyond The Deed
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Rane o’ the Sword, wha’ men misca’ the fool,
Has turned his galley to the unco’ lands;
Now in the dragon girten prow he stands.
Billows abune the token o’ his rule,
Great fold on fold, the rover’s banner spread.
The hard neives dirl the ash ayint the tide
The war shields klish amain alang the side,
The red moon hammers dune a sea o’ red.
Rane o’ the Sword, nae sairly do we greet