Up from the lonely days that dawned remote -- That dawned and beat on Loma but to sink And die, forgotten little paths that link Old beaches with old hills were slowly wrought. Perhaps a native willow-woven boat Ventured at times along the island's brink; But these thin trails quick Indian feet, I think, Had stamped before canoes were made to float. Out of a trackless dream, through age-held nights, Through slow returns of darkness to long sleep, Where antelope and rabbit shared old rights To secret runways, banked and sunken deep In grass and fern -- arose these streets whose lights Across to mountain, sea, sky, city . . . leap. |