Stone Breaker

The thunder of dreams Lifts against the sky in a gray smoke—

Laughter of countless voices, And I hear but one— The strain of the cropped bird, A half-tremolo, Swording the majesty of a gaunt world In vain; Tearing its frowned silence But a little way, And washing back the cleaved parts With the tears of its despair; Crying out as an entity Of miniature wrath, With blind eyes to the rock Of its opponent, With blind eyes to the beauty Of unapproachable strength.

This wing-clipped bird Will some day feel itself, And the renewal of its jagged pinions, Will some day gain the vision To see its own smallness of powers— Then it will sit at this Gibraltar And never move a stone!