IT wound through strange scarred hills, down canyons lone Where wild things screamed, with winds for company; Its mile-stones were the bones of pioneers. Bronzed, haggard men, often with thirst a-moan, Lashed on their beasts of burden toward the sea: An epic quest it was of elder years, For fabled gardens or for good, red gold, The trail men strove in iron days of old. To-day the steam-god thunders through the vast, While dominant Saxons from the hurtling trains Smile at the aliens, Mexic, Indian, Who offer wares, keen-colored, like their past; Dread dramas of immitigable plains Rebuke the softness of the modern man; No menace, now, the desert's mood of sand; Still westward lies a green and golden land. For, at the magic touch of water, blooms The wilderness, and where of yore the yoke Tortured the toilers into dateless tombs, Lo! brightsome fruits to feed a mighty folk. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...OLD OSAWATOMIE by CARL SANDBURG THE BALINESE WITCH DOCTOR by KAREN SWENSON DON JUAN: CANTO 1 by GEORGE GORDON BYRON A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 27 by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN JANUARY, 1795 by MARY DARBY ROBINSON BODY AND SOUL by AWHAD AD-DIN 'ALI IBN VAHID MUHAMMAD KHAVARANI |