Richard Watson Gilder

An Hour in a Studio

EACH picture was a painted memory
Of the far plains he loved, and of their life
Weird, mystical, dark, inarticulate,-
And cities hidden high against the blue,
Whose sky-hung steps one Indian could guard.
The enchanted Mesa there its fated wall
Lifted, and all its story lived again,-
How, in the happy planting time, the strong
Went down to push the seeds into the sand,
Leaving the old and sick.Then reeled the world
And toppled to the plain the perilous path.
Death climbed another way to them who stayed.
He showed us pictured thirst, a dreadful sight;
And many tales he told that might have come,-
Brought by some planet-wanderer,-fresh from Mars,
Or from the silver deserts of the moon.
    But I remember better than all else 
One night he told of in that land of fright-
The love-songs swarthy men sang to their herds
On the high plains to keep the beasts in heart;
    Piercing the silence one keen tenor voice 
Singing "Ai nostri monti" clear and high:
Instead of stakes and fences round about
They circled them with music in the night.