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Come, brother, come. Let’s lift it;
Come now, hewit!
Pour O pour that parting soul in song, O pour it in the sawdust glow of night. Into the velvet pine-smoke air to-night.
And let the valley carry it along.
The sky, lazily disdaining to pursue
The setting sun, too indolent to hold
A lengthened tournament for flashing gold,
Passively darkens for night’s barbeque,
A feast of moon and men and barking hounds.
A orgy for some genius of the south
White blood-hot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth,
Surprised with making folk-songs from soul sounds.
The sawmill blows its whistle buzz-saws stop,
And silence breaks the bud of knoll and hill,
Soft settling pollen where plowed lands fulfill
The early promise of a bumper crop.
Smoke from the pyramid sawdust pile
Curls up, blue ghost of tre