Calling the heavy-browed, the strong,
Out of their resting-place.

Far from the lighted town,
Over the snow and ice,
Their dreadful feet go up and down
Seeking a sacrifice.

And can you find a way
Where They will not come after?
The vast chords hesitate and sway
Into a sudden laughter.

Sheffield, 1917


XIX

I have known the lure of cities and the bright gleam
of golden things,
Spires, towers, bridges, rivers, and the crowd that
flows as a river,
Lights in the midnight streets under the rain,
and the stings
Of joys that make the spirit reel and shiver.

But I see bleak moors and marshes and sparse grasses,
And frozen stalks against the snow;
Dead forests, ragged pines and dark morasses
Under the shadows of the mountains where no men go.