RE Morris, on the plains that we have loved,
Think of the death of Akoose, fleet of foot,
Who, in his prime, a herd of
From sunrise, without rest, a hundred
Drove through rank prairie, loping like a wolf,
Tired them and slew them, ere the sun went down.
Akoose, in his old age, blind from the
Of tepees and the sharp snow light,
With his great grandchildren, withered and spent,
Crept in the warm sun along a
Stretched for his guidance.
Once when sharp
Made membranes of thin ice upon the sloughs,
He caught a pony on a quick
Of prowess, and, all his instincts cleared and quickened,
He mounted, sensed the north and bore
To the Last Mountain Lake where in his
He shot the sand-hill-cranes with his flint arrows.
And for these hours in all the varied
Of pagan fancy and free dreams of
And crude adventure, he ranged on entranced,
Until the sun blazed level with the prairie,
Then paused, faltered and slid from off his pony.
In a little bluff of poplars, hid in the bracken,
He lay down; the populace of
In the lithe poplars whispered together and trembled,
Fluttered before a sunset of gold smoke,
With interspaces, green as sea water,
And calm as the deep water of the sea.
There Akoose lay, silent amid the bracken,
Gathered at last with the Algonquin Chieftains.
Then the tenebrous sunset was blown out,
And all the smoky gold turned into cloud wrack.
Akoose slept forever amid the poplars,
Swathed by the wind from the far-off Red
Where dinosaurs sleep, clamped in their rocky tombs.
Who shall count the time that lies
The sleep of Akoose and the dinosaurs?
Innumerable time, that yet is like the
Of the long wind that creeps upon the
And dies away with the shadows at sundown.. . . . . .
What we may think, who brood upon the theme,
Is, when the old world, tired of spinning, has
Asleep, and all the forms, that carried the
Of life, are cold upon her marble heart–Like ashes on the altar–just as she stops,
That something will escape of soul or essence,–The sum of life, to kindle otherwhere:
Just as the fruit of a high sunny garden,
Grown mellow with autumnal sun and rain,
Shrivelled with ripeness, splits to the rich heart,
And looses a gold kernel to the mould,
So the old world, hanging long in the sun,
And deep enriched with effort and with love,
Shall, in the motions of maturity,
Wither and part, and the kernel of it
Escape, a lovely wraith of spirit, to
Where the appearance, throated like a bird,
Winged with fire and bodied all with passion,
Shall flame with presage, not of tears, but joy.
