Classic Poem

Where go the broken songs? Where go the lives
That flash'd, and pass'd? Where goes the man we love,
If he should die? Where goes the valiant life
That labour'd and was buried and forgot?
— Where go the very days that even now
We grasp and love ... they sink, they fade away, —
And we remain, and wonder, and are dumb.

White heat, the glare of sand, the shouts of men; —
Here at the rail-head are the incomers
Fresh from the sea; and here the inland men
With wagons, carriers, or their naked selves
Hasten ahead machinery and food.
Here at Chimoio is the terminus —
Here waits the rail and peers towards the West,
Nervous, unknowing ... And they speak of war:
Up on the high veld there is Death abroad ...
Death! The bridge-builders laugh — the linesmen smile —
The stricken, yellow faces turn away,
The hungry, blood-shot eyes seek out the hills —
Dim on the sky-line — where a man may die
Other than by malaria and drink.

Big men, large speech, hard faces dark with tan, —
Hope, mystery, and endeavour blent in one
With shattered lives and vice untameable.
Daphne, wide-eyed, was thrill'd, and vaguely fear'd
The unkempt, careless Whitemen with their guns
Strapp'd with raw hide, — the mobs of shouting blacks,
Streaming with sweat, who slung the sacks of rice —
The cases of canned beef and other goods —
Off the hot trucks. And she was frankly shock'd
By that pale, reckless soul who kept the Bar
And managed the Hotel; — one of her sex
Who shouted at the men, and had no fear
Of drinking with them — yea, of swearing too.

She mentioned it to John. Out in the night
Beneath the blazing of the tropic stars
They wander'd to the outspan, where the road
Led to Rhodesia, and the spans were ringed
With thorns and fire to keep the lions off.
— Why were the men so rough? And Mrs. Smith!

John laughed a little, and he turned to her,
" Daphne," he said, " They are not really rough, —
Mere children dressed as men. Self-conscious, yes, —
That is the fact, I think. The life out here
Loosens the tongue when one comes in again
Out of the soundless veld. And Mrs. Smith?
Well, many years ago — far South of here —
Near the Limpopo somewhere — in the bush
Smith's cattle died while he was trekking North; —
They died. The Kafirs coveted the spoil
And set upon the wagon in the dawn.
They killed the Cape boys; Smith was also killed.
Then came a party of some mining men
And beat the niggers off. But Mrs. Smith
Lay on the grave and would not come away
For days ... and days. And then a friend of mine,
One of the men — my chum — persuaded her
By shewing her the boy, (she had a child),
And thus she went. And now she wanders on
From town to town, working in bars. Her son
Works for James Tamar on the highveld now."

He stopped abruptly. From the vaulted skies
The far white stars look'd down as thoughtfully
As if they, too, remembered all the tale.

Daphne gazed up, and started. — Was this tale
One of the keys? For the first time she felt —
Here on the open road, with all the night
Wrapping itself about her — a great fear
Of sudden separation. Might the dark
Not cast some awful shadow in between
And leave her standing stricken and alone ...?
Was this the meaning at the back of all —
Was tragedy the secret of the world?
The darkness seem'd to catch her in its arms —
To laugh, and choke, and hold her ... with a cry
She caught John Great-of-Heart's strong hand, and he
Apologised for telling such a tale —
He was afraid he frighten'd her: " No, No, —
Who is this man James Tamar," Daphne said.
John paused a moment, and the darkness hid
The gradual softening of his keen gray eyes, —
But Daphne caught the tone — " He is my chum."