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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=509105" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Wind-Struck Music</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ed Stiles and old Tom Birnam went up to their cattle on the<br>bare hills<br>Above Mai Paso; they'd ridden under the stars' white death,<br>when they reached the ridge the huge tiger-lily<br>Of a certain cloud-lapped astonishing autumn sunrise opened all<br>its petals. Ed Stiles pulled in his horse,<br>That flashy palamino he rode cream-color, heavy white mane,<br>white tail, his pride and said<br>'Look, Tom. My God. Ain't that a beautiful sunrise?' Birnam<br>drew down his mouth, set the hard old chin,<br>And whined: 'Now, Ed: listen here: I haven't an ounce of<br>poetry in all my body. It's cows we're after.'<br>Ed laughed and followed; they began to sort the heifers out of<br>the herd. One red little deer-legged creature<br>Rolled her wild eyes and ran away down the hill, the old man<br>hard after her. She ran through a deep-cut gully,<br>And Birnam's piebald would have made a clean jump but the clay lip<br>Crumbled under his take-off, he slipped and<br>Spilled in the pit,<br>flailed with four hooves and came out scrambling.<br>Stiles saw them vanish,<br>Then the pawing horse and the flapping stirrups. He rode and<br>looked down and saw the old man in the gulley-bottom<br>Flat on his back, most grimly gazing up at the sky. He saw the<br>earth banks, the sparse white grass,<br>The strong dark sea a thousand feet down below, red with reflections<br>of clouds. He said 'My God,<br>Tom, are you hurt?' Who answered slowly, 'No, Ed.<br>I'm only lying here thinking o' my four sons' biting the words<br>Carefully between his lips 'big handsome men, at present lolling<br>in bed in their . . . silk . . . pyjamas . . .<br>And why the devil I keep on working?' He stood up slowly and<br>wiped the dirt from his cheek, groaned, spat,<br>And climbed up the clay bank. Stiles laughed: 'Tom, I can't tell<br>you: I guess you like to. By God I guess<br>You like the sunrises.' The old man growled in his throat and said<br>'Catch me my horse.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">This old man died last winter, having<br>lived eighty-one years under open sky,<br>Concerned with cattle, horses and hunting, no thought nor emotion<br>that all his ancestors since the ice-age<br>Could not have comprehended. I call that a good life; narrow,<br>but vastly better than most<br>Men's lives, and beyond comparison more beautiful; the wind-struck<br>music man's bones were moulded to be the harp for.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robinson+Jeffers">Robinson Jeffers</a><div class=q>
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<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=509105" data-title="The Wind-Struck Music de Robinson Jeffers" data-description="Ed Stiles and old Tom Birnam went up to their cattle on the
bare hills
Above Mai Paso; they'd ridden under the stars' white death,
when they reached the ridge the huge tiger-lily
Of a certain cloud-lapped astonishing autumn sunrise opened all
its ..."></div>
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