CERTAIN POETS
Oh, words and words and words,—a twittering blur
Of sparrow wings that puff up from the rye
When something hidden stirs there; up they fly
A wheeling, huddled, undecided whir,
And what it was aroused them, Pan or cur,
Appears not,—save that 'twas a prodigy,
A portent sure, and, with its passing by,
A new world dawned, and grubs and rye-fields were.
And so their verses go,—a clamorous puff
Of words unformed, unbeautiful, distraught,
That eddy in the mood like feathered stuff,
And underneath the sound of them a thought,
Of something hidden stirring,—like enough
Apocalypse or naughtiness—or naught.
A portent then! a dumb and groping urge
Of something blind like voices in a mist;
'Lord, but it 'wilders one! To feel it twist
Old earth with iron, mutter in the forge,
