Beside his heavy-shouldered team thirsty with drought and chilled with rain, he weathered all the striding years till they ran widdershins in his brain: Till the long solitary tracks etched deeper with each lurching load were populous before his eyes, and fiends and angels used his road. All the long straining journey grew a mad apocalyptic dream, and he old Moses, and the slaves his suffering and stubborn team. Then in his evening camp beneath the half-light pillars of the trees he filled the steepled cone of night with shouted prayers and prophecies. While past the campfire`s crimson ring the star struck darkness cupped him round. and centuries of cattle-bells rang with their sweet uneasy sound. Grass is across the wagon-tracks, and plough strikes bone beneath the grass, and vineyards cover all the slopes where the dead teams were used to pass. O vine, grow close upon that bone and hold it with your rooted hand. The prophet Moses feeds the grape, and fruitful is the Promised Land.SourceThe script ran 0.002 seconds.
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