112 With Feet to the Earth 



this form it is pretty bad, I guess as a 

 freak in the Sanskrit mode, the which I 

 would like to see some one use who really 

 writes verse, for the oddity is that of rhyming 

 the first words of the lines : 



Storm flames light the walls of the castle, stark and 



hoar : 

 Form of power piled skyward by hands imbrued in 



gore. 



Mad shapes rush overhead on black and whistling wings ; 

 Bad things chatter in the dark. What is this that clings 

 Round my knees, lifting eyes that blaze through paper 



face, 

 Crowned with sin, yet tempting? I ban your hellish 



race ! 

 The cloud and smoke that pour from the broken postern 



gate 



Beshroud the forms of men whose race has met its fate. 

 Fast by a bier they moan and toss their arms above one's 



head: 

 Last of their line. All's done. The creature's soul is 



dead. 



Night walking in town may be practice 

 for day walking in the country, for seeing 

 little at once we grow keen to see all. By 

 day the environment differs : things are 

 flung at your notice in the city ; in the 

 country they elude you. It is, then, a 



