Over the Hills

A Tall Tale

Inspired by meeting one who did not know them. This is a mirrored Spencerian sonnet.

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Who now remembers those who came before,
   Those men who strode and brought the word in tow,
And built the nation—shore to shining shore—
   Battered, unbroken still that light doth glow,
The echos of those ages, long ago,
   When legends walked upon the living plain,
Are vanished now, the yellow’d pages show,
   Alone, the remnants of their vast domain:
Where Pecos Bill still rides the hurricane,
   And Freebold farms beside the river-land,
And Boone and Crockett start the wagon train,
   That passes by the running Rio Grande—
Where still Paul Bunyan shaves the forest stand
   To let the light on kindly field and grain,
And breaks the pride of mountains with a hand
   To leave a mark lest even he be slain,
John Henry fights against the motor’s reign
   Of smoke and steam made by the idle foe,
To rise and fall, but fall not whole in vain,
   Of all, perhaps, the last of them to go.
Would they now weep to see their song laid low,
   That rang with honor in the peace and war,
When men were mighty at the Alamo,
   Or rested on the humble forest floor.

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