Classic Poem

Mid the trunks and roots gigantic
Of the primal forests grey,
Where the damp mist hid the torrent
And the white wolf dogged the prey,

In the voiceless, leafy vistas,
In the vasty Northern wood,
Strong of limb and frank of feature,
Proud the Aryan father stood.

In his eyes the star of conquest,
In his hand the axe of stone;
Might within him, worlds before him,
All he looked on was his own.

“Are not all things mine to rule them,
Road and river, herd and hound,
Am I no the latest, fairest,
Bravest of the things around?”

In the thickets crashed a something,
Heavy, long, it cleared a place,
And the grey jaws of a monster
Yawned before his lifted face.

Slunk the grey swine from the apples,
Dived the herons from the brake;
Gaping, glaring, forest-rending,
Thus it raised its voice and spake:

“Are not all things thine to govern,
Art thou not the lord of dust,
Stronger than the laws that made thee,
Subtler than the powers that trust?

“Seize the reins of power and passion,
Be as gods are where you stand,
Master pleasure, vengeance, knowledge,
Lo, the fruit is to your hand!”

Pale with passion grew the Aryan,
Madly to the tree he strode;
'Neath his arms the great bows splintered,
In his hand the apple glowed.

Woke the four great winds of heaven,
Rushed together with one sound,
Sank the circle of the forests,
Reeled and swayed the riven ground.

Horrors, noises, deafness, darkness,
Clutched and drowned them like a tide;
And upon a trackless level
Stood the fallen, side by side.