Maurice Thompson Poems

I

I was a rebel, if you please,
A reckless fighter to the last,
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I lay close down beside the river,
My bow well strung, well filled my quiver,
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Where a bright creek into the river's side
Shoots its keen arrow, a green heron sits
Watching the sunfish as it gleaming flits
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Farewell! It is no sorrowful word.
It has never had a pang for me.
Sweet as the last song of a bird,
Soft as a wind-swell from the sea,
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A keen, insistent hint of dawn
Fell from the mountain height;
A wan, uncertain gleam betrayed
The faltering of the night.
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What bird is that, with voice so sweet,
Sings to the sun from yonder tree?
What girl is that so slim and fleet,
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Provence, where love and rhyme
Sweetened one throb of time;
Provence, whose voice is dead,
Whose rose-tree vanishëd;
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What is the grandest thought
Toward which the soul has wrought?
Has it the epic form,
And the power of a storm?
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O subtle, musky, slumbrous clime!
O swart, hot land of pine and palm,
Of fig, peach, guava, orange, lime,
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There is a song some one must sing,
In tender tones and low,
With pink lips curled and quivering,
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