The Prophetic Tribe With Burning Eyes Yesterday Took To The Highway, Carrying Children Slung On Their Backs, Or Offering Proud Hunger The Breast'S Ever-Ripe Prize. The Men Go On Foot, With Shining Weapons, By The Carts Where Their Folk Huddle Together, Sweeping The Heavens, Eyes Grown Heavier With Mournful Regret For Absent Visions. The Cricket, Deep In His Sandy Retreat, Redoubles His Call, On Seeing Their Passing Feet: Cybele, Who Loves Them, Re-Leafs The Glades, Makes The Rocks Gush, The Desert Bloom, Before These Voyagers, Thrown Wide To Whom Is The Intimate Kingdom Of Future Shades.