Peattie Page 2 My feet point north. I rest and read poetry. I am a meridian line on a whirling globe. Find me quick west of Reno, east of San Francisco, - but far below my back, away down there rolls unsounded, fundamental, white hot, under enormous pressure, Earth's molten iron core. Limits Nosing about, as free, as programmed, the red-gold-banner-tailed fish touched the frontier of the kingdom of pure air. Below your horizon, only seen by pilgrimage, what a pouring wealth of stars! Tone Poem The sound of horn is Horn. King Horn came back from exile for his sweetheart: in disguise, stole her from her bridegroom. He was Horn, of Horn. Horn in a mountain pass: a cry for help;