XXXV. Our wounds are different. Your white men Are, after all, not gods indeed, Nor able to make Christs again Do good with bleeding. We who bleed... (Stand off!) we help not in our loss! We are too heavy for our cross, And fall and crush you and your seed. XXXVI. I fall, I swoon! I look at the sky: Of liberty's exquisite pain— In the name of the white child, waiting for me In the death-dark where we may kiss and agree, White men, I leave you all curse-free In my broken heart's disdain! HECTOR IN THE GARDEN. I. NINE years old! The first of any Seem the happiest years that come:- No such word!-I thought, instead, II. Nine green years had scarcely brought me III. If the rain fell, there was sorrow ;— IV. Such a charm was right Canidian, Then the rain hummed dimly off, V. And the sun and I together VI Underneath the chestnuts dripping, VII. In the garden, lay supinely A huge giant, wrought of spade! In a passive giant strength,— And the meadow turf, cut finely, Round them laid and interlaid. VIII. Call him Hector, son of Priam ! With my rake I smoothed his brow Both his cheeks I weeded through: But a rhymer such as I am, Scarce can sing his dignity. IX. Eyes of gentianellas azure, ; X. Brazen helm of daffodillies, With a glitter toward the light; Purple violets, for the mouth, Breathing perfumes west and south; And a sword of flashing lilies, Holden ready for the fight. XI. And a breastplate, made of daisies, Drawn for belt about the waist; While the brown bees, humming praises, Shot their arrows round the chief. XII. And who knows, (I sometimes wondered,) If the disembodied soul Of old Hector, once of Troy, Might not take a dreary joy Here to enter-if it thundered, Rolling up the thunder-roll? XIII. Rolling this way, from Troy-ruin, XIV. Who could know? I sometimes started At a motion or a sound! Did his mouth speak-naming Troy, With an οτοτοτοτοι? Did the pulse of the Strong-hearted Make the daisies tremble round? XV. It was hard to answer, often: But the birds sang in the tree- |