IN THE SIERRAS.
Out of the heat and toil and dust of trades
Into the shadow and forgetfulness
That bless secluded streams and sheltering vales,
A pilgrim whose blind steps led thitherward,
Lit by the vestal beam of thought beyond
The misty girdle of the hills of God,
I journeyed lonely and alone I sought
The valley of the Ages, and the place
Of the wind-braided waters. In the track
Of autumn solitudes I followed where
The leaves were falling to the littered ground,
And every leaf was finished to the fall. ‘
Once earlier had I trod the same retreat,
Haunted of listless steps and careless eyes.
Green was the mantle of the leafy hill,
The streams were swollen to the spongy banks,
The meadow was a lake, where swelling knolls
Lifted their grassy islands to the sun.
But autumn is the loveliest and the best.
Happy the heart I bore into the vale
Over the frosted hills, the meadow snow.
My good horse cast the snow-seals from his hoofs,
And broke the shining pavement of the snow,
Till its fair glittering space was struck across
With stained and dingy crescents. So we trailed
Now through the clustering grove’s white cushioned boughs,
And now the openings and anon between
The tall unbending columns that impale
The architectural forests.
Here no lack
Of the imploring cries that startle us—
The jay-bird’s shrill alarm and many notes,
Untraceable to any tongue whatever,
Heaven-born and brief. Sometimes we faintly heard
The small ground-squirrel’s whistle, sharp and clear.
Nor lack of living token as we passed
Upon the sheeted highlands ; on we sank
Into the awful cafions, where the brook
Hissed between icy fangs that cased the shore
Slim, lank and pallid-blue. We there beheld
The flowerlike track of the cayote near
The fairy tracery where the squirrel skipped
Graceful and shy, and farther on we saw
The smooth divided hollows where the doe
Dropped her light foot and lifted it away.
