Classic and Contemporary Poetry
SONG OF THE AIRWAY, by DAWSON POWELL First Line: Where prodding saints once walked to dreamless sleep Last Line: I shall be gone where mate-less eagles cry. Subject(s): Mormons | ||||||||
Prophets and Pioneers Where plodding saints once walked to dreamless sleep And creaking leather softened in the foam From steaming flanks that matched the pony's breath Against man's hunger for plain words from home -- Man now forgets the trail's old shibboleth -- New thunder drones the plaint of his unrest. Where foot-sore lagged, the sickly welcomed death, The weak let drop the challenge of the West; The Mormon wheel-tracks fill with powdered dust And plunder's ranging starvelings lie at rest. Now their dissolving spirits guide the thrust Of driven wings that leap the creaking seams Of desert wastes, and soar above the crust Of inland basins, robbed of ancient streams. The desert like a sullen buzzard waits For man to stumble from his wind-flung dreams. FLIGHT West from Cheyenne Breasting the wind we rise till earth's a dome, The town's great trees are stubble cropped by sheep, And criss-crossed streets -- a jewelled web that baits The birdman with the thought of promised sleep. Great buttes and sand-cliffs slump where rival hates Of red and white men smouldered into feuds -- Where now, with flapping wings, the magpie prates And coyotes, howling, voice the wasteland moods. The ghosts of Sioux and Pawnee watch us here; In every dust-swept gulch their spirit broods. Against the flight of man's winged pioneers The stubborn breath of their Great Spirit bears. Our motor's barking that we dully hear Drives forward with a rush and brusquely tears The rooted silence from the snow-draped hills. Far south the rearing head of Long's Peak wears A cloud-white turban and the Big Horn fills The plain to north with grandeur scorning change. Our ship wings on. The giddy height distills New splendor from the bowls of Snowy Range. A score of rock-framed mirrors hold the fringe Of trooping evergreens whose ranks arranged Against the vaulting slope in lines, and cringe In tattered groups beneath the threat'ning snow. Thin plumes of spray are seen where streams impinge Against the jagged walls which guide their flow Through canyons muffled in a purple haze. Ahead the green-splotched course of Medicine Bow Drops from an upland gorge where cattle graze, And soon beneath our perch the great North Platte Ravels its silver band to pass a maze Of scattered islands in a sandy flat. The minutes split to thousandths while the screw With pulse, electric, drives as from a bat Sharp puffs of air which sting as though they blew From off a glacier, carrying an age Of silence with their drifting, misty dew. We skim high, terraced battlements that wage A nerve-less combat with the driven sand; Then cross a "dude" town, set where even sage Can find no foothold on the ice-burnt land, -- An oil town with its tanks set out in line Like buttons on a card held in the hand. High over Rawlins soon we catch the shine Of sunlight on the drab Red Desert waste Where sink-holes, ringed about by starving kine, Mix with the rain a lifeless blood-red paste. For weary miles the dun earth sprawls ahead In lazy dunes that mock our nervous haste, Until at last we soar above the spread Of Table Mountain, like a polished ledge Tufted in hollows as a mattress bed And spilling trap winds from its scalloped edge. We drift to west and follow Bitter Creek Winding through tinted columns where a wedge Of glacial ice has gouged the bone-gray cheek Of mountain stone, to join a river dimly green Where island castles tower and vainly seek To hold their heads in light from dawn's first sheen Until night's clouds in purpling splendor shake. A twisting train winds north through a ravine Searching for hiding like a wounded snake, But we keep west across a seared landscape Too new for death, too bleak for life to stake A claim upon its surface where the scrape Of slipping glaciers is but newly stilled, -- Land that has raised no living soul to shape An altar to the God who could have willed Such barrenness to a life-loving world. Leaving the bench-land with our pulses chilled We pass Fort Bridger where the first smoke curled From out-post fires of the emigrant. Along our left the snow's a javelin hurled From Giant's hand and caught on high aslant The peaks of the Uintas. There it guides The airmen tracking with the clouds to plant Dominion's banner where the eagle rides. We nose up to a ceiling formed of cloud; Tossed among wisps of spray our winged ship glides Over the Wasatch range whose ridges crowd The upper air as though to lift the sky. And in its crazy furrows, deeply plowed, No shadows yield but to a sun flung high. With muscles tensed we ride the bumpy air Through Emigration Saddle, then let fly As from a catapult we pierce the glare Which rises gilded, from a crater's bowl, Above Salt Lake, where smoke like combed up hair Lifts from the islands. Like an unnerved soul Dropped in a sacrificial pit, we fall And glide to silence on a man-built mole. ENVOY The Call of the Trail Tonight we revel and tomorrow, part. You shall be home with men upon the earth, Crushing life's fragrance to your hungry heart. I shall go back to trails where I had birth, Leaving no answer to your troubled -- Why? Till time absorbs our lives like scattered mirth, Climbing the ladder of the western sky, Dimly discerned, in absence dimly missed, I shall be gone where mate-less eagles cry. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FLOATING MORMON by KAREN SWENSON THE FARM ON THE GREAT PLAINS by WILLIAM EDGAR STAFFORD THE MORMON TRIAL; ELDER SAUL'S STORY by DANIEL MACINTYRE HENDERSON THE WIND-BOUND MISSION by CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER ONE TO LOVE by ALFRED ISLAY WALDEN I WILL ONE DAY BE A WIDOW, LOVE by PENNY ALLEN WORLD WAS UNPERFECTED TILL MADE FLESH by PENNY ALLEN |
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