The Little Farm

By George Sterling

Along the vague horizon, vapor-bound,
    A monstrous muttering forever broke,
    As tho the Titans at their council spoke,
Far off, or in some cavern underground;
But at the little farm there was no sound,
    Save when a low and idiot laughter woke.
    Ashes, till then a home, sent up their smoke:
A raven dozed upon an eyeless hound.

One laughed whom men had fettered to a tree.
    Above his head a broken-hilted knife
        Pinned a small hand that clasped a bit of string
And still he laughed, nor turned his gaze to see
    The stripped and ravished body of his wife.
        A weathered sign announced: No Trespassing.

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