Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE QUIET WAYS, by MAXWELL STRUTHERS BURT


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE QUIET WAYS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: The great god made me a man
Last Line: And the great hills that pierce the days.
Alternate Author Name(s): Burt, Struthers
Subject(s): Jesus Christ; Life; Native Americans; Indians Of America; American Indians; Indians Of South America


THE Great God made me a man,
Red blood, quick heart, keen eyes;
And he set me here in his wonder world
Under his spreading skies:
Dawns gray-red, and rose rose-red,
And at night the star mist over my head.

The little ways are narrow,
The little ways are mean;
And I cannot see the blue sky,
For the high walls between;
I cannot see the blue sky,
Nor the faces brown and lean.

There is no good denying it,
If you be mountain-born,
You hear the high hills calling
Like the echo of a horn;
Like the echo of a silver horn that threads the crowded day,
You hear the high hills calling and your heart goes away.

There is naught that I count as gain
In the stolid dykes of stuff;
A heart that is free to sing at eve,
I count that gain enough;
And a single furrow of new-turned sod,
A man's gift to a Man God.

To build you a house by a stream;
To sing you a splendid song;
To love a woman whose heart is flame;
To work and dream and be strong;
To sow new fields to the edge of the lane
In seeds that leap to yellow grain.

The white-faced people, they pass me by,
With their sneer, their leer, and their stain; —
That Christ should have lived so long ago
To find them here again!
That Christ should have swept the temple clean,
And they return to their booths obscene!

Ah, no! Not the little folk who pass!
Not the girl of the shop or mill;
Not the pallid clerk with narrow chest;
Not the keen fine soul of good will;
Under their garb of sacrifice
Their souls must be splendid in Christ's eyes.

But the rich folk! The white folk! The folk with many rings!
The folk with silly manners;
The folk with Many Things;
Is there no way to get them sane;
To make them lean again;
To show them all the sweat and pain,
The thoughts of common men?

Nay, I will go from here!
For patienter men than I
The task to brook the fatted leer,
The whetted tusk at the sty;
For I know quiet mountain places
And the good smile of lean brown faces.

O the fine land where men are men,
And women the mothers of men;
Who that once has known you
But will go back again?
To the quiet fields and the quiet ways
And the great hills that pierce the days.





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