As the Crag Eagle
As the crag eagle to the zenith’s height
Wings his pursuit in his exalted hour
Of her the tempest-reared, whose airy power
Of plume and passion challenges his flight
To that wild altitude, where they unite,
In mutual tumultuous victory
And the swift sting of nature’s ecstasy,
Their shuddering pinions and their skyward might—
As they, the strong, to the full height of heaven
Bear up that joy which to the strong is given,
Thus, thus do we, whose stormy spirits quiver
In the bold air of utter liberty,
Clash equal at our highest, I and thee,
Unconquered and unconquering forever!
TO MY FATHER
The eastern hill hath scarce unveiled his head,
And the deliberate sky hath but begun
To meditate upon a future sun,
When thou dost rise from thy impatient bed.
Thy morning prayer unto the stars is said.
And not unlike a child, the penance done
Of sleep, thou goest to thy serious fun,
Exuberant—yet with a whisper tread.
And when that lord doth to the world appear,
The jovial sun, he leans on his old hill,
And levels forth to thee a golden smile—
Thee in his garden, where each warming year
Thou toilest in all joy with him, to fill
And flood the soil with Summer for a while.
TO EDWARD S. MARTIN
FROM A PROFESSIONAL HOBO
How old, my friend, is that fine-pointed pen
Wherewith in smiling quietude you trace
The maiden maxims of your writing-place,
And on this gripped and mortal-sweating den
And battle-pit of hunger now and then
Dip out, with nice and intellectual grace,
The faultless wisdoms of a nurtured race
Of pale-eyed, pink, and perfect gentlemen!
How long have art and wit and poetry,
With all their power, been content, like you,
To gild the smiling fineness of the few,
To filmy-curtain what they dare not see,
In multitudinous reality,
The rough and bloody soul of what is true!
(In an editorial in Life, Mr. Martin had described as “professional hoboes” a number of revolutionary agitators whom he did not like—Pancho Villa, William D. Haywood, Wild Joe O’Carroll—and he did me the honor to include me among them.)