William Allyn Hill, "Fugitive Serfs" (1928)
Dusk———
A silver thread thrown o'er some distant hill
Where roam innumerable spotted herds.
Dusk———
Heavy,—with fragrant perfume—
Of earth—flowers—roses of June.
We alone alone . . .
Wrapped in a shawl o' amber sun-rays,.
Lulled by the thrumming o' distant cars—
Rest,—weary—weary.
Down where willows dip
Green-jade fingers—lady-like—
Coolly in silver-blue pools,
Way down, where the red road melts into the water—
And green sea-weed sways in the breeze—
Rest,—weary—weary.
Tired o' the day-song,
The brightness and glamor of rising—
Working—lagging and shirking.
Tired,—our prayer-hands in attitude God-like,
Despising our bodies . . . divining our souls.
Dusk———
Visions of past days
Once thought of as future.
Savory then,—now unpleasant their view.
Still, to perfect them, we hope . . .
Completing the old—beginning the new.
Dusk———
The warmth of bodies that hunger,
Wary of touch,
Known—unknown—desired,
Urged by throbs of a tom-tom, a heart beat,—a blood call———
Yielding in ecstasy life's gifts on a pyre.
Dusk———
And the warmth of an inner fire.
Published in Four Lincoln University Poets, 1928
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- "Four Lincoln University Poets" (Anthology, 1930) Amardeep Singh