Indian Pipes (verse)
Alling, Kenneth Slade
264 THE COMMONWEAL July 2, 1930 Indian Pipes Enriched with shadow, Death has found A spectral meadow In this dim ground. And here he grows In the dust of night, Like a ghostly...
...And here he grows In the dust of night, Like a ghostly rose This saprophyte...
...And with what cost And struggle beneath...
...From the hands of death They spring, almost With luminous breath...
...Kenneth Slade Alling...
...In the darkness lost...
...Though I like the tillage Of fields of men, I'd rather pillage These fields now when As from sepulchres That have burst apart, At the feet of the firs These strange things start...
Vol. 12 • July 1930 • No. 9
