Where The Demons Grin

THE hill was low, but stretched away
A straggling mile or so to where
The sea was stamping, tossing spray
Beyond its bulwarks black and bare :
     A sullen sea of gray.

Ah me, it was so desolate,
And sadder for the sea-bird's cry
Thrillingly thin. There seemed a weight
Brooding, as if the leaden sky
     Hung heavier for hate.

The grasses jerked as they were stung
By vicious winds. A daisy's head
Crouched in a tuft till it was flung
From its uneasy, troubled bed
     And tost the waves among.

A bent, old man was climbing slow
With weary step and plodding pace
That savage hill, and wild did blow
A bitter wind in headlong race,
     Harsh from the sea below.

And all the woeful things he said—
Ah me, the twitching of his lips—
Of hungry children craving bread,
And fortune's sideward slips,
     And how his wife was dead.

He held a rope, and as he trod,
Pressing against the furious wind,
He muttered low and sneered at God,
And said He sure was deaf or blind,
     Or lazing on the sod.
       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .

And what was done I will not tell—
There is a bent tree on the top
Of that low hill, there you can see
The sequel of this mystery . . .
Beneath the moon ... I dared not stop
My God a demon up from hell
Jab-jabbered as the old man fell.

Insurrections [1909]