Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=413303" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Malcolm's Katie: A Love Story - Part II.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The South Wind laid his moccasins aside,<br>Broke his gay calumet of flow'rs, and cast<br>His useless wampun, beaded with cool dews,<br>Far from him, northward; his long, ruddy spear<br>Flung sunward, whence it came, and his soft locks<br>Of warm, fine haze grew silver as the birch.<br>His wigwam of green leaves began to shake;<br>The crackling rice-beds scolded harsh like squaws:<br>The small ponds pouted up their silver lips;<br>The great lakes ey'd the mountains, whisper'd 'Ugh!'<br>'Are ye so tall, O chiefs? Not taller than<br>Our plumes can reach.' And rose a little way,<br>As panthers stretch to try their velvet limbs,<br>And then retreat to purr and bide their time.<br>At morn the sharp breath of the night arose<br>From the wide prairies, in deep struggling seas,<br>In rolling breakers, bursting to the sky;<br>In tumbling surfs, all yellow'd faintly thro'<br>With the low sun--in mad, conflicting crests,<br>Voic'd with low thunder from the hairy throats<br>Of the mist-buried herds; and for a man<br>To stand amid the cloudy roll and moil,<br>The phantom waters breaking overhead,<br>Shades of vex'd billows bursting on his breast,<br>Torn caves of mist wall'd with a sudden gold,<br>Reseal'd as swift as seen--broad, shaggy fronts,<br>Fire-ey'd and tossing on impatient horns<br>The wave impalpable--was but to think<br>A dream of phantoms held him as he stood.<br>The late, last thunders of the summer crash'd,<br>Where shrieked great eagles, lords of naked cliffs.<br>The pulseless forest, lock'd and interlock'd<br>So closely, bough with bough, and leaf with leaf,<br>So serf'd by its own wealth, that while from high<br>The moons of summer kiss'd its green-gloss'd locks;<br>And round its knees the merry West Wind danc'd;<br>And round its ring, compacted emerald;<br>The south wind crept on moccasins of flame;<br>And the fed fingers of th' impatient sun<br>Pluck'd at its outmost fringes--its dim veins<br>Beat with no life--its deep and dusky heart,<br>In a deep trance of shadow, felt no throb<br>To such soft wooing answer: thro' its dream<br>Brown rivers of deep waters sunless stole;<br>Small creeks sprang from its mosses, and amaz'd,<br>Like children in a wigwam curtain'd close<br>Above the great, dead, heart of some red chief,<br>Slipp'd on soft feet, swift stealing through the gloom,<br>Eager for light and for the frolic winds.<br>In this shrill moon the scouts of winter ran<br>From the ice-belted north, and whistling shafts<br>Struck maple and struck sumach--and a blaze<br>Ran swift from leaf to leaf, from bough to bough;<br>Till round the forest flash'd a belt of flame.<br>And inward lick'd its tongues of red and gold<br>To the deep, tranied inmost heart of all.<br>Rous'd the still heart--but all too late, too late.<br>Too late, the branches welded fast with leaves,<br>Toss'd, loosen'd, to the winds--too late the sun<br>Pour'd his last vigor to the deep, dark cells<br>Of the dim wood. The keen, two-bladed Moon<br>Of Falling Leaves roll'd up on crested mists<br>And where the lush, rank boughs had foiled the sun<br>In his red prime, her pale, sharp fingers crept<br>After the wind and felt about the moss,<br>And seem'd to pluck from shrinking twig and stem<br>The burning leaves--while groan'd the shudd'ring wood.<br>Who journey'd where the prairies made a pause,<br>Saw burnish'd ramparts flaming in the sun,<br>With beacon fires, tall on their rustling walls.<br>And when the vast, horn'd herds at sunset drew<br>Their sullen masses into one black cloud,<br>Rolling thund'rous o'er the quick pulsating plain,<br>They seem'd to sweep between two fierce red suns<br>Which, hunter-wise, shot at their glaring balls<br>Keen shafts, with scarlet feathers and gold barbs,<br>By round, small lakes with thinner, forests fring'd,<br>More jocund woods that sung about the feet<br>And crept along the shoulders of great cliffs;<br>The warrior stags, with does and tripping fawns,<br>Like shadows black upon the throbbing mist<br>Of Evening's rose, flash'd thro' the singing woods--<br>Nor tim'rous, sniff'd the spicy, cone-breath'd air;<br>For never had the patriarch of the herd<br>Seen limn'd against the farthest rim of light<br>Of the low-dipping sky, the plume or bow<br>Of the red hunter; nor when stoop'd to drink,<br>Had from the rustling rice-beds heard the shaft<br>Of the still hunter hidden in its spears;<br>His bark canoe close-knotted in its bronze,<br>His form as stirless as the brooding air,<br>His dusky eyes too, fix'd, unwinking, fires;<br>His bow-string tighten'd till it subtly sang<br>To the long throbs, and leaping pulse that roll'd<br>And beat within his knotted, naked breast.<br>There came a morn. The Moon of Falling Leaves,<br>With her twin silver blades had only hung<br>Above the low set cedars of the swamp<br>For one brief quarter, when the sun arose<br>Lusty with light and full of summer heat,<br>And pointing with his arrows at the blue,<br>Clos'd wigwam curtains of the sleeping moon,<br>Laugh'd with the noise of arching cataracts,<br>And with the dove-like cooing of the woods,<br>And with the shrill cry of the diving loon<br>And with the wash of saltless, rounded seas,<br>And mock'd the white moon of the Falling Leaves.<br>'Esa! esa! shame upon you, Pale Face!<br>'Shame upon you, moon of evil witches!<br>'Have you kill'd the happy, laughing Summer?<br>'Have you slain the mother of the Flowers<br>'With your icy spells of might and magic?<br>'Have you laid her dead within my arms?<br>'Wrapp'd her, mocking, in a rainbow blanket.<br>'Drown'd her in the frost mist of your anger?<br>'She is gone a little way before me;<br>'Gone an arrow's flight beyond my vision;<br>'She will turn again and come to meet me,<br>'With the ghosts of all the slain flowers,<br>'In a blue mist round her shining tresses;<br>'In a blue smoke in her naked forests--<br>'She will linger, kissing all the branches,<br>'She will linger, touching all the places,<br>'Bare and naked, with her golden fingers,<br>'Saying, 'Sleep, and dream of me, my children<br>''Dream of me, the mystic Indian Summer;<br>''I, who, slain by the cold Moon of Terror,<br>''Can return across the path of Spirits,<br>''Bearing still my heart of love and fire;<br>''Looking with my eyes of warmth and splendour;<br>''Whisp'ring lowly thro' your sleep of sunshine?<br>''I, the laughing Summer, am not turn'd<br>''Into dry dust, whirling on the prairies,--<br>''Into red clay, crush'd beneath the snowdrifts.<br>''I am still the mother of sweet flowers<br>''Growing but an arrow's flight beyond you--<br>''In the Happy Hunting Ground--the quiver<br>''Of great Manitou, where all the arrows<br>''He has shot from his great bow of Pow'r,<br>''With its clear, bright, singing cord of Wisdom,<br>''Are re-gather'd, plum'd again and brighten'd,<br>''And shot out, re-barb'd with Love and Wisdom;<br>''Always shot, and evermore returning.<br>''Sleep, my children, smiling in your heart-seeds<br>''At the spirit words of Indian Summer!''<br>'Thus, O Moon of Falling Leaves, I mock you!<br>'Have you slain my gold-ey'd squaw, the Summer?'<br>The mighty morn strode laughing up the land,<br>And Max, the labourer and the lover, stood<br>Within the forest's edge, beside a tree;<br>The mossy king of all the woody tribes,<br>Whose clatt'ring branches rattl'd, shuddering,<br>As the bright axe cleav'd moon-like thro' the air,<br>Waking strange thunders, rousing echoes link'd<br>From the full, lion-throated roar, to sighs<br>Stealing on dove-wings thro' the distant aisles.<br>Swift fell the axe, swift follow'd roar on roar,<br>Till the bare woodland bellow'd in its rage,<br>As the first-slain slow toppl'd to his fall.<br>'O King of Desolation, art thou dead?'<br>Thought Max, and laughing, heart and lips, leap'd on<br>The vast, prone trunk. 'And have I slain a King?<br>'Above his ashes will I build my house--<br>No slave beneath its pillars, but--a King!'<br>Max wrought alone, but for a half-breed lad,<br>With tough, lithe sinews and deep Indian eyes,<br>Lit with a Gallic sparkle. Max, the lover, found<br>The labourer's arms grow mightier day by day--<br>More iron-welded as he slew the trees;<br>And with the constant yearning of his heart<br>Towards little Kate, part of a world away,<br>His young soul grew and shew'd a virile front,<br>Full-muscl'd and large statur'd, like his flesh.<br>Soon the great heaps of brush were builded high,<br>And like a victor, Max made pause to clear<br>His battle-field, high strewn with tangl'd dead.<br>Then roar'd the crackling mountains, and their fires<br>Met in high heaven, clasping flame with flame.<br>The thin winds swept a cosmos of red sparks<br>Across the bleak, midnight sky; and the sun<br>Walk'd pale behind the resinous, black smoke.<br>And Max car'd little for the blotted sun,<br>And nothing for the startl'd, outshone stars;<br>For Love, once set within a lover's breast,<br>Has its own Sun--it's own peculiar sky,<br>All one great daffodil--on which do lie<br>The sun, the moon, the stars--all seen at once,<br>And never setting; but all shining straight<br>Into the faces of the trinity,--<br>The one belov'd, the lover, and sweet Love!<br>It was not all his own, the axe-stirr'd waste.<br>In these new days men spread about the earth,<br>With wings at heel--and now the settler hears,<br>While yet his axe rings on the primal woods,<br>The shrieks of engines rushing o'er the wastes;<br>Nor parts his kind to hew his fortunes out.<br>And as one drop glides down the unknown rock<br>And the bright-threaded stream leaps after it,<br>With welded billions, so the settler finds<br>His solitary footsteps beaten out,<br>With the quick rush of panting, human waves<br>Upheav'd by throbs of angry poverty;<br>And driven by keen blasts of hunger, from<br>Their native strands--so stern, so dark, so dear!<br>O, then, to see the troubl'd, groaning waves,<br>Throb down to peace in kindly, valley beds;<br>Their turbid bosoms clearing in the calm<br>Of sun-ey'd Plenty--till the stars and moon,<br>The blessed sun himself, has leave to shine<br>And laugh in their dark hearts! So shanties grew<br>Other than his amid the blacken'd stumps;<br>And children ran, with little twigs and leaves<br>And flung them, shouting, on the forest pyres,<br>Where burn'd the forest kings--and in the glow<br>Paus'd men and women when the day was done.<br>There the lean weaver ground anew his axe,<br>Nor backward look'd upon the vanish'd loom,<br>But forward to the ploughing of his fields;<br>And to the rose of Plenty in the cheeks.<br>Of wife and children--nor heeded much the pangs<br>Of the rous'd muscles tuning to new work.<br>The pallid clerk look'd on his blister'd palms<br>And sigh'd and smil'd, but girded up his loins<br>And found new vigour as he felt new hope.<br>The lab'rer with train'd muscles, grim and grave,<br>Look'd at the ground and wonder'd in his soul,<br>What joyous anguish stirr'd his darken'd heart,<br>At the mere look of the familiar soil,<br>And found his answer in the words--'_Mine own!_'<br>Then came smooth-coated men, with eager eyes,<br>And talk'd of steamers on the cliff-bound lakes;<br>And iron tracks across the prairie lands;<br>And mills to crush the quartz of wealthy hills;<br>And mills to saw the great, wide-arm'd trees;<br>And mills to grind the singing stream of grain;<br>And with such busy clamour mingled still<br>The throbbing music of the bold, bright Axe--<br>The steel tongue of the Present, and the wail<br>Of falling forests--voices of the Past.<br>Max, social-soul'd, and with his practised thews,<br>Was happy, boy-like, thinking much of Kate,<br>And speaking of her to the women-folk;<br>Who, mostly, happy in new honeymoons<br>Of hope themselves, were ready still to hear<br>The thrice told tale of Katie's sunny eyes<br>And Katie's yellow hair, and household ways:<br>And heard so often, 'There shall stand our home--<br>'On yonder slope, with vines about the door!'<br>That the good wives were almost made to see<br>The snowy walls, deep porches, and the gleam<br>Of Katie's garments flitting through the rooms;<br>And the black slope all bristling with burn'd stumps<br>Was known amongst them all as 'Max's House.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O, Love builds on the azure sea,<br>And Love builds on the golden sand;<br>And Love builds on the rose-wing'd cloud,<br>And sometimes Love builds on the land.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O, if Love build on sparkling sea--<br>And if Love build on golden strand--<br>And if Love build on rosy cloud--<br>To Love these are the solid land.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O, Love will build his lily walls,<br>And Love his pearly roof, will rear,--<br>On cloud or land, or mist or sea--<br>Love's solid land is everywhere!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Isabella+Valancy+Crawford">Isabella Valancy Crawford</a><div class=q>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=413303" data-title="Malcolm's Katie: A Love Story - Part II. de Isabella Valancy Crawford" data-description="The South Wind laid his moccasins aside,
Broke his gay calumet of flow'rs, and cast
His useless wampun, beaded with cool dews,
Far from him, northward; his long, ruddy spear
Flung sunward, whence it came, and his soft locks
Of warm, fine haze grew..."></div>
</div>
</div>