Iv

I walk the forest by the Daniel Boone trail. By guide posts quaint. And the blazes are faint In the rough old bark Of silver poplars And elms once slim, Now monoliths tall. I walk the aisle, The cathedral hall That is haunted still With chariots dim, Whispering still With debate and call.

I come to you from Campbell. Turn again, prodigal Haunted by his name! Artist, singer, builder, The forest’s son or daughter! You, the blasphemer Will yet know repentance, And Campbell old and grey Will lead you to the dream-side Of a pennyroyal river. While your proud heart is shaken Your confession will be taken And your sins baptized away.

You, statesman-philosopher, Sage with high conceit Who speak of revolutions, in long words, And guide the little world as best you may: I come to you from Campbell And say he rides your way And will wait with you the coming of his day. His horse still threads the forest, Though the storm be roaring down.... Campbell enters now your log-house door. Indeed you make him welcome, after many years, While the children build cob-houses on the floor.

Let a thousand prophets have their due. Let each have his boat in the sky. But you were born for his secular millennium With the old Kentucky forest blooming like Heaven, And the red birds flying high.