Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By WilburUnderwood1676 The Cattle of His Hand
A
Through the cool wanness of dawn and the burning of noontide,
Onward we strain with a mighty resounding of hoof-beats.
Wild, straying feet of a vast and hastening army;
Wistful eyes that helplessly seek one another.
Mournful cry of the dumb-tired hearts within us,
Faint to death with thirst and the gnawing of hunger.
Day by day through stony ways have we hungered;
Naught but a few bitter herbs that grew by the wayside.
Where the place of abiding for us, we know not;
Only we hark for the voice of the Master Herdsman.
Blown on the winds, now close, now far in the distance,
Deep as the void above us and sweet as the dawn-star.
Faint with a need that is ever present within us,
Struggling onward and toiling one by the other.
Broke are our feet and sore and bruised by the climbing;
Sharp is his goad in our quivering flanks when we falter,
But upward we strain nor stop, for the Voice comes to us,
Driving us on once more to the press and the struggle.
Turn we our piteous eyes to the far-stretching highway;
Struggle ahead in the dark as trusting as children.
Where the place of abiding for us, we know not;
Only we hark for the Voice—till hope fades from us.
Wild straying feet of a vast and hastening army,
Wistful hearts that helplessly seek one another.
Through the cool wanness of dawn and the burning of noontide,
Onward we strain with a mighty resounding of hoof-beats.