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t o THE MINSTREL
“Woe . . . . . . !” My Lord Wind sings. His voice is a harp, a harp of a thousand strings; His voice is a harp, and he rides on swift and terrible wings.
“Woe . . . . . . !” My Lord Wind shrills; And the pine-trees mutter threats to their parent hills, The ragged scrub-oaks writhe and clash at fierce demoniac wills.
“Woe . . . . . . !”
My Lord Wind rails; And the young oak bends to the hiss of his stinging flails, While the old oak breaks and the cowering pine-tree wails.
“Woe . . . . . . !” My Lord Wind grieves; ~ And a plaintive echo stirs through the fallen leaves, Like a child-lorn mother's breast the grassy hill-side heaves.
“Woe . . . . . . !” My Lord Wind cries, And the word is a mad crescendo of sobs and sighs. Then out in the far somewhere the voice-of my Lord Wind dies.
They rush on.
O charging steeds,
You will be led back to your stalls;
Your frenzy past,
Your tawny manes smoothly shining.
Soon you will be led back,
Fed fat on human desolation,
Fed fat and tame. * * Ida Judith Johnson
The moon has gone to her bed tonight,
w I think I saw her, at the day's break, A morning or so ago, Washing them, down by the end of the lake, Bending quite low, So tired she was, and pale.
And now each shimmering veil—
Placid breezes sauntering
Great bees, clover-laden,
we who HAVE LOST i They were pursuing us along the road. My arm was gone, and I was weak from loss of blood. Presently a steel splinter ripped my belly; I fell into the slimy ditch, and struggled, struggled !
Soon an officer beneath me spoke, through half a mouth: “Be quiet, little brother, and I will show you how to lie at ease.”
Now we are at rest.
The heavy tread of the victors shakes the earth;
The loose dirt falls from the side of the ditch,
Little by little. Howard Unger
From olden hallways
High above war
Agnes Lee \