| |
| MY masters twain made me a bed | |
| Of pine-boughs resinous, and cedar; | |
| Of moss, a soft and gentle breeder | |
| Of dreams of rest; and me they spread | |
| With furry skins, and, laughing, said,— | 5 |
| “Now she shall lay her polished sides | |
| As queens do rest, or dainty brides, | |
| Our slender lady of the tides!” | |
| |
| My masters twain their camp-soul lit, | |
| Streamed incense from the hissing cones; | 10 |
| Large crimson flashes grew and whirled, | |
| Thin golden nerves of sly light curled, | |
| Round the dun camp, and rose faint zones | |
| Half-way about each grim bole knit, | |
| Like a shy child that would bedeck | 15 |
| With its soft clasp a Brave’s red neck, | |
| Yet sees the rough shield on his breast, | |
| The awful plumes shake on his crest, | |
| And fearful drops his timid face, | |
| Nor dares complete the sweet embrace. | 20 |
| |
| Into the hollow hearts of brakes | |
| Yet warm from sides of does and stags, | |
| Passed to the crisp dark river flags, | |
| Sinuous, red as copper, snakes,— | |
| Sharp-headed serpents, made of light, | 25 |
| Glided and hid themselves in night. | |
| |
| My masters twain the slaughtered deer | |
| Hung on forked boughs, with thongs of leather. | |
| Bound were his stiff, slim feet together, | |
| His eyes like dead stars cold and drear; | 30 |
| The wandering firelight drew near | |
| And laid its wide palm, red and anxious, | |
| On the sharp splendor of his branches; | |
| On the white foam grown hard and sere | |
| On flank and shoulder. | 35 |
| Death, hard as breast of granite boulder, | |
| And under his lashes, | |
| Peered through his eyes at his life’s gray ashes. | |
| |
| My masters twain sang songs that wove | |
| (As they burnished hunting blade and rifle) | 40 |
| A golden thread with a cobweb trifle, | |
| Loud of the chase, and low of love. | |
| |
| “O Love! art thou a silver fish, | |
| Shy of the line and shy of gaffing, | |
| Which we do follow, fierce, yet laughing, | 45 |
| Casting at thee the light-winged wish? | |
| And at the last shall we bring thee up | |
| From the crystal darkness under the cup | |
| Of lily folden, | |
| On broad leaves golden? | 50 |
| |
| “O Love! art thou a silver deer? | |
| Swift thy starred feet as wing of swallow, | |
| While we with rushing arrows follow: | |
| And at the last shall we draw near, | |
| And over thy velvet neck cast thongs, | 55 |
| Woven of roses, of stars, of songs, | |
| New chains all moulden | |
| Of rare gems olden?” | |
| |
| They hung the slaughtered fish like swords | |
| On saplings slender; like scimitars | 60 |
| Bright, and ruddied from new-dead wars, | |
| Blazed in the light the scaly hordes. | |
| |
| They piled up boughs beneath the trees, | |
| Of cedar-web and green fir tassel; | |
| Low did the pointed pine tops rustle, | 65 |
| The camp fire blushed to the tender breeze. | |
| |
| The hounds laid dew-laps on the ground, | |
| With needles of pine sweet, soft and rusty, | |
| Dreamed of the dead stag stout and lusty; | |
| A bat by the red flames wove its round. | 70 |
| |
| The darkness built its wigwam walls | |
| Close round the camp, and at its curtain | |
| Pressed shapes, thin woven and uncertain, | |
| As white locks of tall waterfalls. | |
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