The heroes of childhood were simple and austere, And their pearl-handled six-guns never missed fire. They filled all their straights, were lucky at dice, In a town full of badmen they never lost face. When they looked under beds there was nobody there. We saluted the outlaw whose heart was pure When he stuck up the stage or the mail car -- Big Bill Haywood or Two Gun Marx, Who stood against the bankers and all their works -- They robbed the rich and gave to the poor. But we in our time are not so sure: When the posse catches us our guns hang fire, And strung up from the wagon-tongues of long reflection Our hearts are left hanging by the contradiction Which history imposes on our actions here. Perhaps we were mistaken, it has been so long, In the fierce purpose of these Dead Eye Dans? Did they too wake at night, in a high fever, And wonder when direction would be clear if ever? -- For the saint is the man most likely to do wrong. In any case we later ones can only hope For the positive landmark on the distant slope. Moving through this dead world's Indian Nation The heart must build its own direction -- Which only in the future has a permanent shape. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 8 by THOMAS CAMPION TO LUCASTA ON GOING TO THE WARS FOR THE FOURTH TIME by ROBERT RANKE GRAVES CORONATION by HELEN MARIA HUNT FISKE JACKSON DRUG STORE by JOHN VAN ALSTYN WEAVER AGAMEMNON: WELCOME TO AGAMEMNON by AESCHYLUS COMPLAINS, BEING HIND'RED THE SIGHT OF HIS NYMPH by PHILIP AYRES THE LAST MAN by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE MAXIMS FOR THE OLD HOUSE: THE HEARTH by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |