Classic Poem

The distant, hushed, fiery wheels of time roll along, roll along. On the shoulders of the roads glows the scarlet hour. Not a dog, not a breeze, nor a mother's child. Only the shadow of the East stands guard like a yellow silent slave at the far flung gates of the world. Shadows of the black loam rise like distant wandering choruses and rest in the mists. And a hush — a fire-feast for the world alone. And the West pours red wine on the white banner of silence.