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They sit hunched up along the passes,
Snarling in the gorges;
And one, his lean head straining toward the moon,
Howls, howls!
Snarling in the gorges;
And one, his lean head straining toward the moon,
Howls, howls!
Night is a clanging of loud bronze,
And I fear these mountains;
All the winds of the air
Are blown from their stretched throats.
***
The morning wears a Gothic air,
And Sabbath bells are carved on its blue arches.
And I fear these mountains;
All the winds of the air
Are blown from their stretched throats.
***
The morning wears a Gothic air,
And Sabbath bells are carved on its blue arches.
I am rimmed round with hills
Upon their knees.
Upon their knees.
So rose the first prayer to the first sky—
A wide doxology of early earth
The while God rested.
***
Summer is leaving these high places.
With all their weight
The mountains cannot fasten to the meadow
One warm blade,
Hold to the bough its truest leaf,
Dismay or clamp upon the sky
Any small wing that chooses flight.
A wide doxology of early earth
The while God rested.
***
Summer is leaving these high places.
With all their weight
The mountains cannot fasten to the meadow
One warm blade,
Hold to the bough its truest leaf,
Dismay or clamp upon the sky
Any small wing that chooses flight.
Not all the phalanx of these hills
Piled each on each
Piled each on each
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