ISSUE: Winter 1934
There is a way to break time’s ankles. Mended,
He rises and runs on.
Like nothing of nature’s making, he is gone,
And by the dazzle of his flight defended.
That savage prey not to be trapped or taken
Flies where the eye in vain
Pursues, but the heart, imagining him slain,
Follows fast, spurred by that image and shaken.
Follows across the valleys and through the mountains,
Past cloud on toppled cloud,
And treads the bright corn leaving it unbowed,
And hears night’s gorge bubble with morning’s fountains.
Time runs, and the heart follows, not to capture,
Whether to tame or kill,
Its quarry.
But toward evening on some hill,
The lonely light staying the breast with rapture,
The hunter halts, and for a breath the hunted,
No more afraid or fierce,
Waits transfixed.
How deep such shafts can pierce The mortal and the immortal know, confronted.
