Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE TRAIL, by DAVID ATKINS First Line: In solemn rank on either hand Last Line: Leads .... Home, like any old-world street. Subject(s): Roads; Paths; Trails | ||||||||
IN SOLEMN rank on either hand The patient, upright cedars stand. The trail, worn smooth by countless feet, Is older than an old-world street; But no old streets hold such a bower Encircled by high fern and flower Whose shadows play on mossy ground; And no old streets know such a sound As rises when the constant stream, Chanting its season-varied theme, Is colored by the last clear note From some brave singer's pulsing throat, Who holds the last branch lit by sun And dares deny that day is done. Yet, different as the old world seems, E'en here youth waits and weaves her dreams, And lo! the makers of the trail Pass once again before the veil, Strange in their garb of ancient days. And strange, too, that they go their ways Turning their heads no whit to gaze Upon the glory of her bower, Resplendent at the evening hour With beauty and the light of youth They are but phantom folk in truth! Noiseless, a savage hunter, first, Marks where the antlered deer has burst From out his covert fringed with ferns, And through the quiet air returns The fading turmoil of his flight. With laughter low and footsteps light, A youth and maid in happy plight Walk slowly on, arm linking arm, Unconscious of impending harm In this last sunset of their sway. Close-following the long-trod way, A travel-stained priest with pendant cross, Comes, the first herald of their loss; And in his steps a ruffian band Sent out of Spain to burn and brand; Then, swiftly, seeking to be first, Heedless of hunger, scorning thirst, A whole world's venturers, led by dreams Of rich and undiscovered streams, Whose waters, clear, and swift and cold, Sweep over nests of virgin gold; Behind these, seeking what they left, Close searching every narrow cleft And washing over twice-washed sand, An alien and more patient band, Whose narrow, Orient eyes, and keen, Follow their path and leave it clean; Last, walking slowly where these toiled, And scanning close the banks despoiled, The searchers of the sources pass, Marking each loose stone in the grass, Noting the contour of the ground, The color of the soil, the sound Of certain rock that, like a bell, Will speak and its long secret tell. Before these vanish from her sight A clear voice wakes the birds to flight; And with his greeting die away All visions of an earlier day. In solemn rank on either hand The patient, upright cedars stand. The trail, worn smooth by countless feet, Leads .... home, like any old-world street. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HE FINDS THE MANSION by JAMES MCMICHAEL BY DIFFERENT PATHS by MARVIN BELL DRIVING HOME by MADELINE DEFREES ART IS PARALLEL TO NATURE by CLARENCE MAJOR HIGHWAY 2, ILLINOIS by LISEL MUELLER MR. HOUSMAN'S MESSAGE by EZRA POUND |
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