FABLE

I run, cried the fox, in circles
narrower, narrower still
across the desperate hollow,
skirting the frantic hill

And shall, till my brush hangs burning
flame by the hunter's door,
continue this fatal returning
to places that failed me before!

Then, with his heart breaking nearly,
the lonely, passionate bark
of the fugitive fox rang out clearly
as bells in the frosty dark

Across the desperate hollow,
skirting the frantic hill,
calling the pack to follow
a prey that escaped them still!

Thomas Lanier Williams

November, 1939

St. Louis.

Ballad of the Lost Girl

1.

She was sprawled in wanton posture
by the storm-tormented bars
that divide the vaulting meadow
from the taller reach of stars

And I asked her for her name
but she was strangely reft of tongue
though her look was more explicit
than a language!

There among

The scattered winter grasses
on the moonward-slanting hill
we made a brief assay of passion
with no speech between us till

The veins within me faltered,
being flames that never stay,
and I heard no sound, no whisper
as she rose and crept away.