In Memory Of Col. Charles Young

Along the shore the tall thin grass, That fringes that dark river, While sinuously soft feet pass Beings to bleed and quiver. The great dark voice breaks with a sob Across the womb of night; Above your grave, the tom-toms throb And the hills are weird with light. The great dark beast is like a well Drained bitter by the sky, And all the honeyed lies they tell Come there to thirst and die. No lie is strong enough to kill The roots that work below, From your rich dust and slaughtered will A tree with tongues shall grow.