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,