Carlyle F. McIntyre

From “Rodomontades”

GRAY in eternal twilight are its hills,

The country where my house is hidden away;

And melancholy with blind whippoorwills

That cannot fly to hunt their vanished day.

Low sombre woods of crimson mulberries

Beckon the desperate traveller to drain

A skin of their rich juice. Oh, here is peace

For restlessness, for sorrow, and for pain.

The houses are of solid marble-stone

And only large enough for one to sleep.

Hence, fathers from their children live alone;

Lovers are parted as by hatred deep.

I pass the quiet porches of my friends;

The eyeless walls give me no greeting sign.

One more turn to the left, and the road ends….

The house with laurels at the door is mine.