Page:The Overland Monthly, volume 1, issue 1.djvu/37

 Anon the print of some designing fox

Or dog’s more honest paw ; the solid bowls

That held the heavy oxen’s spreading hoof;

And suddenly, in awe, the bear’s broad palm, With almost human impress. Riding so,

Against the sky’s blue vacancy, I saw

How nature prints abroad and publishes

Her generous gospels. Here the wind-burnt bark Like satin, glossed and quilted; scattered twigs In mystic hieroglyphics ; the dry shrubs

That seem to point to something wise and grave, The leafless stalks that rise so desolate

Out of their slender shafts within the drift,

And over all the brown straws of the pine.

Strong winter heats of the meridian sun

Smote the dumb earth, and she regained her voice. The season and the summit passed at once

We entered to the valley, and forgot

How but an hour back we halted where

Under the dripping gables of the fir,

The slow drops softly sink their silent wells

Into the passive snow. More sweet I found

The sunny dream of autumn’s plentiful

And everlingering, everlasting peace.

And here at last I cast me at my length In the mid valley, where the stream expands

Lakewise, and lilies lift their broad green palms Against the sunshine, and the skaters skate Upon the water, and the beetles dive

Into their shady gardens ; while ashore

A glossy water-thrush trips close upon

And curtsies at the margin as he wets

All of his slender body in the pool.

And here a myriad creatures built and toiled At their incessant masonry. I heard

The meadows drinking in the wet. The earth Meeting the sun did both together blend Their powerful magnetisms. Now forgot

The wood, the torrent, and the gale ; no more I looked upon the diamond-powdered snow, But went afield, and in the meadow heard

The happy robin’s tender tremolo,