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.