Xii

Across the hills, that roll and rise Beneath the blue, adoring skies, Maturing Beauty by the old, Dark forest stands, as might a slave Before a Sultan sitting grave, Grim-gazing from a throne of gold.

Across the hills, that rise and fall, I gaze with eyes grown spiritual, And see the Spirit of the Dew From out the morn, that stains the mist With amber and with amethyst, Blown, bubble-bright, along the blue.

What king such kingly pomp can show As on the hills the afterglow? Where ’mid red woods the maples sit, Like scarlet-mantled sagamores, Who, from their totemed wigwam doors, Watch, through red fires, the ghost-dance flit.

At night, as comes the fox, shall come The Spirit of the Frost, whose thumb Shall squeeze the chestnut burs, and press Each husk bare; whisper every flower Such tales of death that in an hour It dies of utter happiness.

Until the moon sets I shall walk, And listen how the woodlands talk Of bygone lovely nights and days: My soul, made silent intimate Of all their sorrow, soon and late A portion of the autumn haze.