MORNING ON THE MOUNTAIN

Upon the gray crags, steep and sheer,

The columbines’ gold tassels swing,

And wind-flowers cling,

Where, lightly poised, the mountain deer

Drink in the dewy atmosphere

In long, deep draughts of sun and spring;

From haunts that know no hunter’ s snare

The hermit-thrush and wood-dove wing,

Whilst through green openings squirrels fare

And here and there

Great, silvery moths go fluttering.

Along the valley, in a trail

Of purple light, the mist clouds sail,

And, soft and pale

As wreaths of newly risen smoke,

They wrap the red-wood trees and veil

The topmost crests of pine and oak,

And balsam boughs and juniper

Wherethrough the west winds faintly stir

The underwood, and gently stroke

The tall young ferns, and smooth the fur

Of countless happy forest-folk.

Wild little hearts, that throb unknown

Save to the fondling winds alone,

Bright eyes, that sparkle free of fear,

O earth is sweet, and life is dear!

Here in these forests, still your own,

In primal peace, this many a year

God keep you here!

Here where across the waking lands

Young willows wave their bloomy wands,

Whilst up the heights and far away

The pine trees climb in singing bands

And feathery spruces surge and sway

And clap their cones, like little hands,

For gladness of the day!

Up, up, they clamber on until

The tenuous air smites keen and chill,

And far winds blow

From leagues of everlasting snow;

And then the mountain buds, more bold,

Their sheaths unfold

And light their golden fires and glow

With flame unquenched by frost or cold.

Whilst ever o’ er them, shimmering high

Against the sky,

A glittering, crystal radiance streams,

Wherein the mountain floats and gleams

Through frosty fleeces, till it seems

That some great morning star, instead

Of earth, hangs trembling overhead,

A dream of all most lovely dreams!

An airy miracle, overspread

With veils of silvery tissue spun

Of ice and mist and snow and sun.

A dazzle of all lights in one!

I watch it till, tall towering there

Through brightening air,

Such special splendor does it wear

It seems the sun’ s own citadel,

At sight whereof my lips grow dumb

With joy I find no voice to tell;

So stricken silent, as with some

Deep gladness of o’ ermastering spell;

Nor any song of mine may dare

To follow where

The summit’ s utmost radiant peak,

Bright as God’ s chosen cherubim,

Soars through the smiling sky to seek

And fearless front the face of Him.