82
READERS OF LOAM
The alpine-lily whose brimming cup he tipped
Until he spilled its wine upon the grass,
The clouds that billowed up the mountainside
And washed their silver foam about his knees,
The pinewood's smoke that put a pencil-mark
Upon the horizon, spiralled up the blue,
And scrawled its lazy pungent syllables
Across the sunset—these delighted him. . . .
Until he spilled its wine upon the grass,
The clouds that billowed up the mountainside
And washed their silver foam about his knees,
The pinewood's smoke that put a pencil-mark
Upon the horizon, spiralled up the blue,
And scrawled its lazy pungent syllables
Across the sunset—these delighted him. . . .
And here, beneath the great-armed Douglas fir,
Where stars slip by on quiet feet, and winds
Shake out a slender music from the boughs,
He mingled his body with the dust again. . . .
Where stars slip by on quiet feet, and winds
Shake out a slender music from the boughs,
He mingled his body with the dust again. . . .
Step softly here! among these pulsing flowers
Rooted upon his clay. Put down no foot
Upon their petals; bruise no crimson stem.
These bloodroot blossoms are alive with him.
Rooted upon his clay. Put down no foot
Upon their petals; bruise no crimson stem.
These bloodroot blossoms are alive with him.
