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PoetósferaLa BibliotecaJoaquin Miller

Joaquin Miller · Modernismo

Pilgrims of the Plains

inglés

A tale half told and hardly understood ;

The talk of bearded men that chanced to meet,

That lean'd on long quaint rifles in the wood,

That look'd in fellow faces, spoke discreet

And low, as half in doubt and in defeat

Of hope; a tale it was of lands of gold

That lay toward the sun. Wild wing'd and fleet

It spread among the the swift Missouri's bold

Unbridled men, and reach'd to where Ohio roll'd.

Then long chain'd lines of yoked and patient steers;

Then long white trains that pointed to the west ;

Beyond the savage west; the hopes and fears

Of blunt, untutor'd men, who hardly guess'd

Their course; the brave and silent women, dress'd

In homely spun attire, the boys in bands,

The cheery babes that laughed at all and bless'd

The doubting hearts with laughing lifted hands

What exodus for far untraversed lands!

The Plains ! The shouting drivers at the wheel ;

The crash of leather whips ; the crush and roll

Of wheels ; the groan of yokes and grinding steel

And iron chain, and lo ! at last the whole

Vast line, that reached as if to touch the goal,

Began to str.etch and stream away and wind

Toward the west, as if with one control :

Then hope loom'd fair, and home lay far behind ;

Before, the boundless plain, and fiercest of their kind.

At first the way lay green and fresh as seas,

And far away as any reach of wave ;

The sunny streams went by in belt of trees ;

And here and there the tassell'd tawny brave

Swept by on horse, looked back, stretched forth and

A yell of hell, and then did wheel and rein

Awhile and point away, dark-brow'd and grave,

Into the far and dim and distant plain

With signs and prophecies, and then plunged on again.

Some hills at last began to lift and break;

Some streams began to fail of wood and tide,

The somber plain began betime to take

A hue of .weary brown, and wild and wide

ft stretch'd its naked breast on every side.

A babe was heard at last to cry for bread

A mid the deserts; cattle low'd and died,

And dying men went by with broken tread,

And left a long black serpent line of wreck and dead.

Strange hunger'd birds, black-wing'd and still as death,

And crown'd of red and hooked beaks, flew low

And close about till we could touch their breath

Strange unnamed birds, that seem'd to come and go

In circles now, and now direct and slow,

Continual, yet never touch the earth;

Slim foxes shied and shuttled to and fro

At times across the dusty weary dearth

Of life, looked back, then sank like crickets in a hearth.

Then dust arose, a long dim line like smoke

From out of riven earth. The wheels went groaning by,

The thousand feet in harness, and in yoke,

They tore the ways of ashen alkali,

And desert winds blew sudden, swift, and dry.

The dust! it sat upon and flll'd the train.

It seem'd to fret and fill the very sky.

Lo! dust upon the beasts, the tent, the plain,

And dust, alas! on breasts that rose not up again.

They sat in desolation and in dust

By dried-up desert streams; the mother's hands

Hid all her bended face; the cattle thrust

Their tongues and faintly called across the lands.

The babes that knew not what the way through sands

Could mean, did ask if it would end today.

The panting wolves slid by, red-eyed, in bands

To pools beyond. The men look'd far away,

And silent deemed that all a boundless desert lay.

They rose by night, they struggl'd on and on

As thin and still as ghosts ; then here and there

Beside the dusty way before the dawn,

Men silent laid them down in their despair,

And died. But woman ! Woman, frail as fair !

May man have strength to give to you your due ;

You falter'd not nor murmur'd anywhere,

You held your babes, held to your course, and you

Bore on through burning hell your double burdens through.

Men stood at last, the decimated few,

Above a land of running streams, and they ?

They pushed aside the boughs, and peering through

Beheld afar the cool refreshing bay ;

Then some did curse, and some bend hands to pray ;

But some looked back upon the desert wide

And desolate with death, then all the day

They mourned. But one, with nothing left beside

His dog to love, crept down among the ferns and died.

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Autor
Joaquin Miller
Título
Pilgrims of the Plains
Lengua
inglés
Época
Modernismo
Sala
La Biblioteca
Identificador
ws-en-pilgrims-of-the-plains--joaquin-miller-bc7f90
Cita recomendada
Joaquin Miller, «Pilgrims of the Plains», Poetósfera, poetosfera.com/p/ws-en-pilgrims-of-the-plains--joaquin-miller-bc7f90.html

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