I MET an Indian underneath a tree, under a ragged tree,
His face was yellow and wrinkled like some stone
whereon a God had writ
And his emaciated fingers drew circles in the dust . . .
I bent my mouth to his ear, crying "O father, O Prophet!
I have wandered far over the earth troubled with doubts that will not let me rest,
Canst thou not tell me with all thy wizardries and meditations
The purpose of our lives upon this world,
The secret truth Earth shelters in her womb?"
His face was yellow and wrinkled like some stone
whereon a God had writ
And his emaciated fingers drew circles in the dust . . .
I bent my mouth to his ear, crying "O father, O Prophet!
I have wandered far over the earth troubled with doubts that will not let me rest,
Canst thou not tell me with all thy wizardries and meditations
The purpose of our lives upon this world,
The secret truth Earth shelters in her womb?"
But he was listening to the whispering of the mountains,
To the boom of God's paces on the rocks,
And the swishing steps of his followers in the rivers.
Then suddenly he pointed to the arched doorway in between the hills,
And the mysterious purple curtain of the dusk that drooped from cliff to cliff.
I saw in his eyes the vision of highborn ghosts,
Of divine ivory faces wreathed with the flowers of wisdom—
And I knew that he had found only the half-spoken promises of Heaven. . . .
***
I saw a drunkard laughing in a tavern,
His cup was tilted and the wine spilt crimson on the
sprawled arms and distracted hair of a woman fallen asleep,
I watched him there and wondered
If ever the bubbling goblins of wine had whispered him life's secret.
But he raised the cup of his carousals and gazed at emptiness,
Toasting some wild, irreverent dream,
To the boom of God's paces on the rocks,
And the swishing steps of his followers in the rivers.
Then suddenly he pointed to the arched doorway in between the hills,
And the mysterious purple curtain of the dusk that drooped from cliff to cliff.
I saw in his eyes the vision of highborn ghosts,
Of divine ivory faces wreathed with the flowers of wisdom—
And I knew that he had found only the half-spoken promises of Heaven. . . .
***
I saw a drunkard laughing in a tavern,
His cup was tilted and the wine spilt crimson on the
sprawled arms and distracted hair of a woman fallen asleep,
I watched him there and wondered
If ever the bubbling goblins of wine had whispered him life's secret.
But he raised the cup of his carousals and gazed at emptiness,
Toasting some wild, irreverent dream,
121
