Ii

’Twixt fog and fire, in pomps of chrysoprase, Above vague peaks, the morning hesitates Ere, o’er the threshold of her golden gates, Speeds the wild splendor of her chariot’s rays.

A gleaming glimmer in the sun-speared mist, A cataract, reverberating, falls: Upon a pine a gray hawk sits and calls, Then soars away no bigger than a fist.

Along the wild path, through the oaks and firs,-- Rocks, where the rattler coils himself and suns,-- Big-booted, belted, and with twinkling guns, The posse marches with its moonshiners.