The song of the ancient people . fect gift of a stainless life Might still the vengeful throe ; —For our fathers were wise and pure of breath,The breath that is soul the word be-neath, And all their ways we when at last the shadow falls And the sleep no thunders wake,By the dead a vase of water clear For the parted soul we break,Giving the life again to the Sun Through Ka-thlu-el-lons Lake;And, facing the east, the body lay In our mother Earth to rest,16 \ Wqt ftntimt people Where dews may fall and dawns may gleamAnd purple and crimson radiancestreamWhen day is low in the west;And plu
The song of the ancient people . fect gift of a stainless life Might still the vengeful throe ; —For our fathers were wise and pure of breath,The breath that is soul the word be-neath, And all their ways we when at last the shadow falls And the sleep no thunders wake,By the dead a vase of water clear For the parted soul we break,Giving the life again to the Sun Through Ka-thlu-el-lons Lake;And, facing the east, the body lay In our mother Earth to rest,16 \ Wqt ftntimt people Where dews may fall and dawns may gleamAnd purple and crimson radiancestreamWhen day is low in the west;And plumes of the birds of summer-land,Freighted with many a prayer,We bring to help the spirits way In the pathless depths of we do not fear that silent flight, Nor the slumber lone and chill;For the Home of the Dead has songand love,And they wander where they will;And morn and eve, by hearth andwood,We see their faces , day and night, and night and day, Our rites the Gods enchain,And bring us peace no others wini7. W$t ancient people Of all their earthly train;For we are the Ancient People,Born with the wind and rain. And yet . . and yet ... on themesa topAs we sit when the sun is low,And, far to west, Franciscos peaks Blaze in his parting glow, —While plain, and rock, and cedar-steepFade slow from rose to gray,And the sand-clouds, blown by theflying wind,Like demons chase the day;And the fires of the wandering mete-ors gleam,And the dire mirage looms farTo beckon us hence to the namelesslandWhere our Lost Others are;18 W$z Ancient people And, weird as the wail by the SpiritLakeBewildered hunters know,The cry of the owl comes mournful up From the dusky glen below, —That boding cry when death is nigh And days that are dim with woe; —Sit, and think that but ruins mark The realm that erst was ours,The countless cities wrapped in dust Which once were stately powers,And that over our race, as over theplain,The gathering darkness lowers ;And see how great from th
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Keywords: ., bookauthorfiskejoh, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1890, bookyear1893
