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THE OLD MEN

This is our lot if we live so long and labour unto the end

That we outlive the impatient years and the much too patient friend:

And because we know we have breath in our mouth

and think we have thought in our head,

We shall assume that we are alive, whereas we are really dead.

We shall not acknowledge that old stars fade or alien planets arise

(That the sere bush buds or the desert blooms or the ancient well-head dries),

Or any new compass wherewith new men adventure 'neath new skies.

We shall lift up the ropes that constrained our youth to bind on our children's hands;

We shall call to the water below the bridges to re

turn and replenish our lands;

We shall harness horses (Death's own pale horses)

and scholarly plough the sands.

THE OLD MEN

We shall lie down in the eye of the sun for lack of a

light on our way

We shall rise up when the day is done and chirrup,

"Behold, it is day!"

We shall abide till the battle is won ere we amble

into the fray.

We shall peck out and discuss and dissect, and evert and extrude to our mind,

The flaccid tissues of long-dead issues offensive to God and mankind

(Precisely like vultures over an ox that the Army has left behind).

We shall make walk preposterous ghosts of the glories we once created

(Immodestly smearing from muddled palettes amazing pigments mismated)

And our friends will weep when we ask them with boasts if our natural force be abated.

The Lamp of our Youth will be utterly out: but we shall subsist on the smell of it,

And whatever we do, we shall fold our hands and

suck our gums and think well of it.

Yes, we shall be perfectly pleased with our work, and that is the perfectest Hell of it!

This is our lot if we live so long and listen to those who love us

That we are shunned by the people about and shamed by the Powers above us.

Wherefore be free of your harness betimes; but being free be assured,

That he who hath not endured to the death, from his birth he hath never endured!

THE EXPLORER

"THERE'S no sense in going further-it's the edge of cultivation,"

So they said, and I believed it-broke my land and

sowed my crop

Built my barns and strung my fences in the little

border station

Tucked away below the foothills where the trails run out and stop.

Till a voice, as bad as Conscience, rang interminable changes

On one everlasting Whisper day and night repeated

-so:

"Something hidden.

Go and find it. Go and look

behind the Ranges

"Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and wait

ing for you. Go!"

So I went, worn out of patience; 'never told my

nearest neighbours

Stole away with pack and ponies-left 'em drinking

in the town;

And the faith that moveth mountains didn't seem to

help my labours

As I faced the sheer main-ranges, whipping up and leading down.

March by march I puzzled through 'em, turning

flanks and dodging shoulders,

Hurried on in hope of water, headed back for lack of

grass;

Till I camped above the tree-line-drifted snow and naked boulders

Felt free air astir to windward-knew I'd stumbled

on the Pass.

'Thought to name it for the finder: but that night the Norther found me

Froze and killed the plains-bred ponies: so I called the camp Despair

(It's the Railway Gap to-day, though). Then my Whisper waked to hound me:

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Something lost behind the Ranges. Over yonder. Go you there!"

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