Poetry
Riverscape
IsTo your arms your gray olives withdrawing, Gray stony hills, you lie watching aloof Rhone lying couched 'neath the sky's pale roof, Rhone with his cypresses massed on the bank, Dead reeds and poplars that shiver and clank, Rhone running blue through a snow-powdered land.
(Springs from the earth what pictured exhalation Heart, you remember ! 'Twos Tigris then, for Rhone ; Gray hills of PerSia, a pinnaeled desolation, Snow-capt they rimmed the river-wrinkled plain ! See, no mist that stars with eyes once known, Eyes that I loved ! the dead have Come again !) Stony gray hills, from my thought draw apart I Leave me alone with the land of my heart :
I would see only that sole river run—
That wintry sun The waste slow thawing !
Would see them again, may friends where they stand, Eyes under hand Watching the battle draw near wherein died Youth and my friends—who were friendship's pride !
EDWARD TuomesoNr.
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