Forbidden Mexico Four hundred yards away— A drunken, tawny beast— Slept across the southward path. “There shall no soldier go,” The order was, “beyond The murky middle of the stream.” Forbidden Mexico!— Its drifting slopes Slid back into sun-hid distance. Its tawny skin, sleek With clean aridity, Lay unpunctured by man’s growth. Four hundred yards away— A thousand years could sink Into the gap between this river-bank and that.
No posts