THE HILL SUMMIT

This feast-day of the sun, his altar there

In the broad west has blazed for vesper-song;

And I have loitered in the vale too long

And gaze now a belated worshipper.

Yet may I not forget that I was‘ ware,

So journeying, of his face at intervals

Transfigured where the fringed horizon falls,—

A fiery bush with coruscating hair.

And now that I have climbed and won this height,

I must tread downward through the sloping shade

And travel the bewildered tracks till night.

Yet for this hour I still may here be stayed

And see the gold air and the silver fade

And the last bird fly into the last light.