Willa Sibert Cather
In the “Dark Ages”
In the “Dark Ages”
In the “Dark Ages”
“Have you been with the King to Rome,Brother, big brother?”“I’ve been there and I’ve come home.Back to your play, little brother.”“Oh, how high is Cæsar’s house,Brother, big brother?”“Goats about the doorways browse;Night-hawks nest in the burnt roof-tree.Home of the wild bird and home of the bee,A thousand chambers of marble lieWide to the sun and the wind and the sky.Poppies we find amongst our wheatGrow on Cæsar’s banquet seat.Cattle crop and neat-herds drowseOn the floors of Cæsar’s house.”“But what has become of Cæsar’s gold,Brother, big brother?”“The times are bad and the world is old—Who knows the where of the Cæsar’s gold?Night comes black o’er the Cæsar’s hill;The wells are deep and the tales are ill;Fireflies gleam in the damp and mold—All that is left of the Cæsar’s gold.Back to your play, little brother.”“What has become of the Cæsar’s men,Brother, big brother?”“Dogs in the kennel and wolf in the denHowl for the fate of the Cæsar’s men,Slain in Asia, slain in Gaul,By Dacian border and Persian wall.Rhineland orchard and Danube fenFatten their roots on Cæsar’s men.”“Why is the world so sad and wide,Brother, big brother?”“Saxon boys by their fields that bideNeed not know if the world is wide.Climb no mountain but Shere-end Hill,Cross no water but goes to mill.Ox in the stable and cow in the byre,Smell of the wood-smoke and sleep by the fire;Sun-up in seed-time—a likely ladHurts not his head that the world is sad.Back to your play, little brother.”
“Have you been with the King to Rome,Brother, big brother?”“I’ve been there and I’ve come home.Back to your play, little brother.”“Oh, how high is Cæsar’s house,Brother, big brother?”“Goats about the doorways browse;Night-hawks nest in the burnt roof-tree.Home of the wild bird and home of the bee,A thousand chambers of marble lieWide to the sun and the wind and the sky.Poppies we find amongst our wheatGrow on Cæsar’s banquet seat.Cattle crop and neat-herds drowseOn the floors of Cæsar’s house.”“But what has become of Cæsar’s gold,Brother, big brother?”“The times are bad and the world is old—Who knows the where of the Cæsar’s gold?Night comes black o’er the Cæsar’s hill;The wells are deep and the tales are ill;Fireflies gleam in the damp and mold—All that is left of the Cæsar’s gold.Back to your play, little brother.”“What has become of the Cæsar’s men,Brother, big brother?”“Dogs in the kennel and wolf in the denHowl for the fate of the Cæsar’s men,Slain in Asia, slain in Gaul,By Dacian border and Persian wall.Rhineland orchard and Danube fenFatten their roots on Cæsar’s men.”“Why is the world so sad and wide,Brother, big brother?”“Saxon boys by their fields that bideNeed not know if the world is wide.Climb no mountain but Shere-end Hill,Cross no water but goes to mill.Ox in the stable and cow in the byre,Smell of the wood-smoke and sleep by the fire;Sun-up in seed-time—a likely ladHurts not his head that the world is sad.Back to your play, little brother.”
“Have you been with the King to Rome,Brother, big brother?”“I’ve been there and I’ve come home.Back to your play, little brother.”
“Have you been with the King to Rome,
Brother, big brother?”
“I’ve been there and I’ve come home.
Back to your play, little brother.”
“Oh, how high is Cæsar’s house,Brother, big brother?”“Goats about the doorways browse;Night-hawks nest in the burnt roof-tree.Home of the wild bird and home of the bee,A thousand chambers of marble lieWide to the sun and the wind and the sky.Poppies we find amongst our wheatGrow on Cæsar’s banquet seat.Cattle crop and neat-herds drowseOn the floors of Cæsar’s house.”
“Oh, how high is Cæsar’s house,
Brother, big brother?”
“Goats about the doorways browse;
Night-hawks nest in the burnt roof-tree.
Home of the wild bird and home of the bee,
A thousand chambers of marble lie
Wide to the sun and the wind and the sky.
Poppies we find amongst our wheat
Grow on Cæsar’s banquet seat.
Cattle crop and neat-herds drowse
On the floors of Cæsar’s house.”
“But what has become of Cæsar’s gold,Brother, big brother?”“The times are bad and the world is old—Who knows the where of the Cæsar’s gold?Night comes black o’er the Cæsar’s hill;The wells are deep and the tales are ill;Fireflies gleam in the damp and mold—All that is left of the Cæsar’s gold.Back to your play, little brother.”
“But what has become of Cæsar’s gold,
Brother, big brother?”
“The times are bad and the world is old—
Who knows the where of the Cæsar’s gold?
Night comes black o’er the Cæsar’s hill;
The wells are deep and the tales are ill;
Fireflies gleam in the damp and mold—
All that is left of the Cæsar’s gold.
Back to your play, little brother.”
“What has become of the Cæsar’s men,Brother, big brother?”“Dogs in the kennel and wolf in the denHowl for the fate of the Cæsar’s men,Slain in Asia, slain in Gaul,By Dacian border and Persian wall.Rhineland orchard and Danube fenFatten their roots on Cæsar’s men.”
“What has become of the Cæsar’s men,
Brother, big brother?”
“Dogs in the kennel and wolf in the den
Howl for the fate of the Cæsar’s men,
Slain in Asia, slain in Gaul,
By Dacian border and Persian wall.
Rhineland orchard and Danube fen
Fatten their roots on Cæsar’s men.”
“Why is the world so sad and wide,Brother, big brother?”“Saxon boys by their fields that bideNeed not know if the world is wide.Climb no mountain but Shere-end Hill,Cross no water but goes to mill.Ox in the stable and cow in the byre,Smell of the wood-smoke and sleep by the fire;Sun-up in seed-time—a likely ladHurts not his head that the world is sad.Back to your play, little brother.”
“Why is the world so sad and wide,
Brother, big brother?”
“Saxon boys by their fields that bide
Need not know if the world is wide.
Climb no mountain but Shere-end Hill,
Cross no water but goes to mill.
Ox in the stable and cow in the byre,
Smell of the wood-smoke and sleep by the fire;
Sun-up in seed-time—a likely lad
Hurts not his head that the world is sad.
Back to your play, little brother.”
The old West, the old time,The old wind singing throughThe red, red grass a thousand miles—And, Spanish Johnny, you!He’d sit beside the water ditchWhen all his herd was in,And never mind a child, but singTo his mandolin.The big stars, the blue night,The moon-enchanted lane;The olive man who never spoke,But sang the songs of Spain.His speech with men was wicked talk—To hear it was a sin;But those were golden things he saidTo his mandolin.The gold songs, the gold stars,The word so golden then;And the hand so tender to a child—Had killed so many men.He died a hard death long agoBefore the Road came in—The night before he swung, he sangTo his mandolin.
The old West, the old time,The old wind singing throughThe red, red grass a thousand miles—And, Spanish Johnny, you!He’d sit beside the water ditchWhen all his herd was in,And never mind a child, but singTo his mandolin.The big stars, the blue night,The moon-enchanted lane;The olive man who never spoke,But sang the songs of Spain.His speech with men was wicked talk—To hear it was a sin;But those were golden things he saidTo his mandolin.The gold songs, the gold stars,The word so golden then;And the hand so tender to a child—Had killed so many men.He died a hard death long agoBefore the Road came in—The night before he swung, he sangTo his mandolin.
The old West, the old time,The old wind singing throughThe red, red grass a thousand miles—And, Spanish Johnny, you!He’d sit beside the water ditchWhen all his herd was in,And never mind a child, but singTo his mandolin.
The old West, the old time,
The old wind singing through
The red, red grass a thousand miles—
And, Spanish Johnny, you!
He’d sit beside the water ditch
When all his herd was in,
And never mind a child, but sing
To his mandolin.
The big stars, the blue night,The moon-enchanted lane;The olive man who never spoke,But sang the songs of Spain.His speech with men was wicked talk—To hear it was a sin;But those were golden things he saidTo his mandolin.
The big stars, the blue night,
The moon-enchanted lane;
The olive man who never spoke,
But sang the songs of Spain.
His speech with men was wicked talk—
To hear it was a sin;
But those were golden things he said
To his mandolin.
The gold songs, the gold stars,The word so golden then;And the hand so tender to a child—Had killed so many men.He died a hard death long agoBefore the Road came in—The night before he swung, he sangTo his mandolin.
The gold songs, the gold stars,
The word so golden then;
And the hand so tender to a child—
Had killed so many men.
He died a hard death long ago
Before the Road came in—
The night before he swung, he sang
To his mandolin.