They are rising in endless numbers
From ways that are wide and lone,
Dream-eyed with the fire that slumbers
And feeds on the heart, unknown;
Deep-souled, but with lips grown scornful,
And shallow to careless eyes,
With hearts that are tender -- mournful
Those cynical writers rise.
From realms of a restless roaming,
From creeks where the camp-fires glow,
From flash of the waters foaming,
From plains where the night-winds blow;
From dreams of a mighty longing
To deeds of a sordid world,
From the memories softly thronging
To lips that are grimly curled.
By shadow and star, in sadness,
By dusk and the lonely moon,
By moan of the midnight madness,
By calm of the deep mid-noon;
Pale-browned o'er their sun-brown faces,
Hard-handed and soft of heart,
All reckless, the squadron paces,
And each in his soul apart.
And what are the hopes they cherish?
And what are the dreams they dream
When cynical scornings perish,
And lawless the lovelights gleam?
Bent low o'er the sweat-stained bridle
They rise, with a careless hold;
Each with his broken idol,
Each with his dream untold.
First published in The Bulletin, 20 January 1900
