Excerpt
The Hill People. Their steps are light and exceedingly fleet:They pass me by in the hurrying street. I pause to look at a window’s show—From the white-flecked alp the hill winds blow— And all at once it has passed me there,Lilting back to the land of the air, Back to the land of the great white stills:Is it only the wind that comes down from the hills? ——— Was it Pikes Peak Pixie or Cheyenne SheeThat whispered a gay little rhyme to me? Or a gnome that lives in the heart of a stoneAnd dances at dawn around Cameron’s Cone? Did the haunting laugh of the Maid of the Corn,An Aztec memory trill on the morn? Or soft did the Navajo Shell-Woman speakAs she passed with a hymn for the great white peak? ——— They touch me light with their finger tipsAnd lay little snatches of song on my lips, And swift I am gone where the hill-streams flow,Where the pit-lark soars and the gentians blow. The tapers of blossoms flame under the treeAnd the pilgrim road unfolds for me, Lifting away where the hill-folk keepThe gardens and cloisters and shrines of the Steep. ——— In charmed ways my feet are set:By what fair host is the palmer met And borne away to the great white stills?Is it only the wind that comes down from the hills?
Columbine in the Hills. A carnival gladdens the hills in June,And Columbine waltzes a gypsy tune;Or deep in the pleasance, happily met,She whirls with a gay little pirouette,Where the long trees lean in a twilight trance,Dreaming her over the seas to France. Or quiet under the aspen’s shade,Misty-eyed little pensive maid,Musing under the Great Steep’s tree,Is it for Pierrot?—where is he? A flutter of petticoats, buff and blue,Sashes and streamers and holiday tire,Columbine trips her a measure for you,Gayest heart of the waltzing choir.Under the pines I saw her dance,Lilting a gay little tune of France.
Saxifrage. The wide, wide sky was a crystal clear,A great blue dome that quivered near. And oh, the white-flowered miracle grownOut of the broad gray breast of a stone! Little plant, did you guess that when I heardYou whisper your one sweet rune-telling word, Straight into the crystal I could see,And the Heart of the Sky leaned down to me?
Alpine Forget-Me-Not. Before earth’s dawn hour thought to wane,Where Paradise leaned over Iran’s plain,A man god looked from his templed faneOn a maiden wondrously fair:He saw her first in the Cashmere’s danks,Singing at dawn by a river’s banks,Where the long grass leaned to her, ranks on ranks,Forget-me-nots twined in her hair. O night of sorrow in Cashmere’s fen—For a god may not wed with a maid of men—Driven in wrath was the man god thenFrom the genii’s holy mirth,Till the river-maid’s hand shall scatter and pourThe seeds of the little blue flowers she wore,From the happy lintels of heaven’s own doorTo the uttermost ends of the earth. The Great Steep’s Garden is musked and fair:Araby-sweet is the spice on the air:Ah, softly tread, have gentle care,Love’s handmaid has passed this way....