Page:New Hampshire (Frost, 1923).djvu/28

14 The solid moulding of vast peaks of cloud Behind the pitiful reality Of Lincoln, Lafayette and Liberty? Or some such sense as says how high shall jet The fountain in proportion to the basin? No, none of these has raised me to my throne Of intellectual dissatisfaction, But the sad accident of having seen Our actual mountains given in a map Of early times as twice the height they are— Ten thousand feet instead of only five— Which shows how sad an accident may be. Five thousand is no longer high enough. Whereas I never had a good idea About improving people in the world, Here I am over-fertile in suggestion, And cannot rest from planning day or night How;high I'd thrust the peaks in summer snow To tap the upper sky and draw a flow Of frosty night air on the vale below Down from the stars to freeze the dew as starry.

The more the sensibilitist I am The more I seem to want my mountains wild; The way the wiry gang-boss liked the log-jam. After he'd picked the lock and got it started, He dodged a log that lifted like an arm Against the sky to break his back for him, Then came in dancing, skipping, with his life Across the roar and chaos, and the words We saw him say along the zigzag journey Were doubtless as the words we heard him say