AndFairiesCame from them.
On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,”I saw gray Johnny Appleseed at prayerJust as the sunset made the old earth fair.Then darkness came; in an instant, like great smoke,The sun fell down as though its great hoops brokeAnd dark rich apples, poured from the dim flameWhere the sun set, came rolling toward the peak,A storm of fruit, a mighty cider-reek,The perfume of the orchards of the world,From apple-shadows: red and russet domesThat turned to clouds of glory and strange homesAbove the mountain tops for cloud-born souls:—Reproofs for men who build the world like moles,Models for men, if they would build the worldAs Johnny Appleseed would have it done—Praying, and reading the books of SwedenborgOn the mountain top called “Going-To-The-Sun.”
On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,”I saw gray Johnny Appleseed at prayerJust as the sunset made the old earth fair.Then darkness came; in an instant, like great smoke,The sun fell down as though its great hoops brokeAnd dark rich apples, poured from the dim flameWhere the sun set, came rolling toward the peak,A storm of fruit, a mighty cider-reek,The perfume of the orchards of the world,From apple-shadows: red and russet domesThat turned to clouds of glory and strange homesAbove the mountain tops for cloud-born souls:—Reproofs for men who build the world like moles,Models for men, if they would build the worldAs Johnny Appleseed would have it done—Praying, and reading the books of SwedenborgOn the mountain top called “Going-To-The-Sun.”
On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,”I saw gray Johnny Appleseed at prayerJust as the sunset made the old earth fair.Then darkness came; in an instant, like great smoke,The sun fell down as though its great hoops brokeAnd dark rich apples, poured from the dim flameWhere the sun set, came rolling toward the peak,A storm of fruit, a mighty cider-reek,The perfume of the orchards of the world,From apple-shadows: red and russet domesThat turned to clouds of glory and strange homesAbove the mountain tops for cloud-born souls:—Reproofs for men who build the world like moles,Models for men, if they would build the worldAs Johnny Appleseed would have it done—Praying, and reading the books of SwedenborgOn the mountain top called “Going-To-The-Sun.”
On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,”A comet stopped to drink from a cool springAnd like a spirit-harp began to singTo us, then hurried on to reach the sun.We called him “Homer’s soul,” and “Milton’s wing.”The harp-sound stayed, though he went up and on.It turned to thunder, when he had quite gone—And yet was like a soft voice of the sea,And every whispering root and every blade of grassAnd every treeIn the whole world, and brought thoughts of old songsThat blind men sang ten thousand years ago,And all the springtime hearts of every nation know.
On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,”A comet stopped to drink from a cool springAnd like a spirit-harp began to singTo us, then hurried on to reach the sun.We called him “Homer’s soul,” and “Milton’s wing.”The harp-sound stayed, though he went up and on.It turned to thunder, when he had quite gone—And yet was like a soft voice of the sea,And every whispering root and every blade of grassAnd every treeIn the whole world, and brought thoughts of old songsThat blind men sang ten thousand years ago,And all the springtime hearts of every nation know.
On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,”A comet stopped to drink from a cool springAnd like a spirit-harp began to singTo us, then hurried on to reach the sun.We called him “Homer’s soul,” and “Milton’s wing.”The harp-sound stayed, though he went up and on.It turned to thunder, when he had quite gone—And yet was like a soft voice of the sea,And every whispering root and every blade of grassAnd every treeIn the whole world, and brought thoughts of old songsThat blind men sang ten thousand years ago,And all the springtime hearts of every nation know.
On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,”I sat alone; while Stephen explored higher,I dragged in sticks and logs and kept our fire.On soft-winged sails of meditationMy boat of spiral shells and flowers,And fluffy clouds and twinkling hours,My thought-boat went with the sun all dayOver the glaciers, far away.I sat alone, but the chipmunks knewMy boat was high, and plain to view.I flew my ship like a kite. The threadWas a cobweb silk, fine and thin,That came from out the palm of my hand.There I saw the ship begin.From the gypsy’s life line thence it cameA feather of mist that flew to the dawn,And I felt the spool in my wrist unwind,And I saw the feather on heaven’s lawn,Now a glimmering ship like a lark awake.And the kite string sang, but did not break.
On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,”I sat alone; while Stephen explored higher,I dragged in sticks and logs and kept our fire.On soft-winged sails of meditationMy boat of spiral shells and flowers,And fluffy clouds and twinkling hours,My thought-boat went with the sun all dayOver the glaciers, far away.I sat alone, but the chipmunks knewMy boat was high, and plain to view.I flew my ship like a kite. The threadWas a cobweb silk, fine and thin,That came from out the palm of my hand.There I saw the ship begin.From the gypsy’s life line thence it cameA feather of mist that flew to the dawn,And I felt the spool in my wrist unwind,And I saw the feather on heaven’s lawn,Now a glimmering ship like a lark awake.And the kite string sang, but did not break.
On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,”I sat alone; while Stephen explored higher,I dragged in sticks and logs and kept our fire.
On soft-winged sails of meditationMy boat of spiral shells and flowers,And fluffy clouds and twinkling hours,My thought-boat went with the sun all dayOver the glaciers, far away.I sat alone, but the chipmunks knewMy boat was high, and plain to view.
I flew my ship like a kite. The threadWas a cobweb silk, fine and thin,That came from out the palm of my hand.There I saw the ship begin.From the gypsy’s life line thence it came
A feather of mist that flew to the dawn,And I felt the spool in my wrist unwind,And I saw the feather on heaven’s lawn,Now a glimmering ship like a lark awake.And the kite string sang, but did not break.
It stretched like the string of a violinPlayed by invisible tides and waves.It sang of Springfield yet to be.It sang of the dead hours in their graves.And of the United States to be,And of all the map stretched out below.And my kite had pansy eyes in its wings,And I saw the states in their bloom and glowYet a child’s block-map, and nothing more,Flat patterns on a playroom floor.Texas the fort, by the river to the south,Michigan a pheasant with a leaf in its mouth,Illinois an ear of corn, in the shock,Maine a moose-horn, gray as a rock.California a whale, in gilded mail,Montana, a ranch of alfalfa and clover,Montana with its mountain called “Going-To-The-Sun,”An outdoor temple for the singer and the rover,Wyoming a range for a summer lark,With sparkling trails, and its Yellowstone Park,Colorado an Indian tent for the world,Where the smokes of care-free camps are curled,Arizona a mission in the desert for all time,Where the nerves find peace, and thoughts find rhyme,New Mexico a clay pueblo full of dreams,Eldorado in its valleys, ghosts by its streams.Utah a throne for a grandeur unknown,For haughty hearts, with ways of their own.Nevada the cabin of Mark Twain in his youth,Where he mined in the cañons, where he dug for the truth.Washington a western soldier’s tent,Idaho a chair for a president,North and South Dakota, one buffalo hide,Oregon a lumber mill on a mountain side,Nebraska, Oklahoma, cowboy pistols pointing westKansas a wheat field where I, once, was a guest,Iowa a corn pone sizzling hot,Minnesota a farmer’s coffee-pot.Arkansas a steamboat at Mark Twain’s door,Missouri Mark Twain’s raft on the shore.Louisiana a cavalier’s boot, just the thingWhen we wade toward the mouth of the delta in the spring.Mississippi a cotton scales,Alabama many cotton bales,Georgia a peach-basket red,Florida a wild turkey’s head,North Carolina a crane, flying through a cloud,South Carolina a soldier, with head unbowed,West Virginia, the raccoon, shrewd and slow,Tennessee Bob Taylor’s fiddle and bow,Virginia Thomas Jefferson’s mountain and shroud,Kentucky the log cradle of the proud.Maryland a plow, Delaware a pruning hook,Indiana Riley’s Hoosier book,Wisconsin a caldron, cool it who can,Ohio Johnny Appleseed’s park for man.Vermont a poet’s house, with waterfall and fern,Where Frost writes songs that the world will learn.New Jersey the doorstep of the nation,Pennsylvania the front room of the nation,Where once Penn welcomed all creationAnd let them sleep on the grassy floorAnd let them eat the wild berries and explore.Rhode Island, Roger Williams’ holy place,Connecticut, an arbor of innocence and graceFilled with flowers, and souls like lace,Especially one little girl six years youngWho tells me stories in the fairy tongue.New Hampshire the mast of the Mayflower,Massachusetts the prow of the Mayflower,Most famous ark forevermore.The whole map a temple, if we patiently read,With the statue of Liberty in majesty to pleadFor Arcady to come once more,And with New York on guard,New York a sentinel,New York a lion by the door.By my camp fire I grew older,There were chipmunks on my shoulder,While I saw the world,With the eyes of my boat,As one land,With Asia and Alaska by the ice bound as one,The Aurora Borealis was a cross bright as the sun.I seemed to live through myriad days.My eyes looked down like searching rays.I took my flight over many races,I saw, in my thought, all human faces.And my spirit had its fill.And the thread in my wrist wound in againThe cobweb shortened, strand on strand,And my little ship came back to landAnd was only a feather in my hand.
It stretched like the string of a violinPlayed by invisible tides and waves.It sang of Springfield yet to be.It sang of the dead hours in their graves.And of the United States to be,And of all the map stretched out below.And my kite had pansy eyes in its wings,And I saw the states in their bloom and glowYet a child’s block-map, and nothing more,Flat patterns on a playroom floor.Texas the fort, by the river to the south,Michigan a pheasant with a leaf in its mouth,Illinois an ear of corn, in the shock,Maine a moose-horn, gray as a rock.California a whale, in gilded mail,Montana, a ranch of alfalfa and clover,Montana with its mountain called “Going-To-The-Sun,”An outdoor temple for the singer and the rover,Wyoming a range for a summer lark,With sparkling trails, and its Yellowstone Park,Colorado an Indian tent for the world,Where the smokes of care-free camps are curled,Arizona a mission in the desert for all time,Where the nerves find peace, and thoughts find rhyme,New Mexico a clay pueblo full of dreams,Eldorado in its valleys, ghosts by its streams.Utah a throne for a grandeur unknown,For haughty hearts, with ways of their own.Nevada the cabin of Mark Twain in his youth,Where he mined in the cañons, where he dug for the truth.Washington a western soldier’s tent,Idaho a chair for a president,North and South Dakota, one buffalo hide,Oregon a lumber mill on a mountain side,Nebraska, Oklahoma, cowboy pistols pointing westKansas a wheat field where I, once, was a guest,Iowa a corn pone sizzling hot,Minnesota a farmer’s coffee-pot.Arkansas a steamboat at Mark Twain’s door,Missouri Mark Twain’s raft on the shore.Louisiana a cavalier’s boot, just the thingWhen we wade toward the mouth of the delta in the spring.Mississippi a cotton scales,Alabama many cotton bales,Georgia a peach-basket red,Florida a wild turkey’s head,North Carolina a crane, flying through a cloud,South Carolina a soldier, with head unbowed,West Virginia, the raccoon, shrewd and slow,Tennessee Bob Taylor’s fiddle and bow,Virginia Thomas Jefferson’s mountain and shroud,Kentucky the log cradle of the proud.Maryland a plow, Delaware a pruning hook,Indiana Riley’s Hoosier book,Wisconsin a caldron, cool it who can,Ohio Johnny Appleseed’s park for man.Vermont a poet’s house, with waterfall and fern,Where Frost writes songs that the world will learn.New Jersey the doorstep of the nation,Pennsylvania the front room of the nation,Where once Penn welcomed all creationAnd let them sleep on the grassy floorAnd let them eat the wild berries and explore.Rhode Island, Roger Williams’ holy place,Connecticut, an arbor of innocence and graceFilled with flowers, and souls like lace,Especially one little girl six years youngWho tells me stories in the fairy tongue.New Hampshire the mast of the Mayflower,Massachusetts the prow of the Mayflower,Most famous ark forevermore.The whole map a temple, if we patiently read,With the statue of Liberty in majesty to pleadFor Arcady to come once more,And with New York on guard,New York a sentinel,New York a lion by the door.By my camp fire I grew older,There were chipmunks on my shoulder,While I saw the world,With the eyes of my boat,As one land,With Asia and Alaska by the ice bound as one,The Aurora Borealis was a cross bright as the sun.I seemed to live through myriad days.My eyes looked down like searching rays.I took my flight over many races,I saw, in my thought, all human faces.And my spirit had its fill.And the thread in my wrist wound in againThe cobweb shortened, strand on strand,And my little ship came back to landAnd was only a feather in my hand.
It stretched like the string of a violinPlayed by invisible tides and waves.It sang of Springfield yet to be.It sang of the dead hours in their graves.
And of the United States to be,And of all the map stretched out below.And my kite had pansy eyes in its wings,And I saw the states in their bloom and glowYet a child’s block-map, and nothing more,Flat patterns on a playroom floor.
Texas the fort, by the river to the south,Michigan a pheasant with a leaf in its mouth,Illinois an ear of corn, in the shock,Maine a moose-horn, gray as a rock.California a whale, in gilded mail,Montana, a ranch of alfalfa and clover,
Montana with its mountain called “Going-To-The-Sun,”An outdoor temple for the singer and the rover,Wyoming a range for a summer lark,With sparkling trails, and its Yellowstone Park,Colorado an Indian tent for the world,Where the smokes of care-free camps are curled,Arizona a mission in the desert for all time,Where the nerves find peace, and thoughts find rhyme,New Mexico a clay pueblo full of dreams,Eldorado in its valleys, ghosts by its streams.Utah a throne for a grandeur unknown,For haughty hearts, with ways of their own.Nevada the cabin of Mark Twain in his youth,Where he mined in the cañons, where he dug for the truth.Washington a western soldier’s tent,Idaho a chair for a president,North and South Dakota, one buffalo hide,Oregon a lumber mill on a mountain side,Nebraska, Oklahoma, cowboy pistols pointing westKansas a wheat field where I, once, was a guest,Iowa a corn pone sizzling hot,Minnesota a farmer’s coffee-pot.Arkansas a steamboat at Mark Twain’s door,Missouri Mark Twain’s raft on the shore.Louisiana a cavalier’s boot, just the thingWhen we wade toward the mouth of the delta in the spring.Mississippi a cotton scales,Alabama many cotton bales,Georgia a peach-basket red,Florida a wild turkey’s head,North Carolina a crane, flying through a cloud,South Carolina a soldier, with head unbowed,West Virginia, the raccoon, shrewd and slow,Tennessee Bob Taylor’s fiddle and bow,Virginia Thomas Jefferson’s mountain and shroud,Kentucky the log cradle of the proud.Maryland a plow, Delaware a pruning hook,Indiana Riley’s Hoosier book,Wisconsin a caldron, cool it who can,Ohio Johnny Appleseed’s park for man.Vermont a poet’s house, with waterfall and fern,Where Frost writes songs that the world will learn.
New Jersey the doorstep of the nation,Pennsylvania the front room of the nation,Where once Penn welcomed all creationAnd let them sleep on the grassy floorAnd let them eat the wild berries and explore.Rhode Island, Roger Williams’ holy place,Connecticut, an arbor of innocence and graceFilled with flowers, and souls like lace,Especially one little girl six years youngWho tells me stories in the fairy tongue.
New Hampshire the mast of the Mayflower,Massachusetts the prow of the Mayflower,Most famous ark forevermore.
The whole map a temple, if we patiently read,With the statue of Liberty in majesty to pleadFor Arcady to come once more,And with New York on guard,New York a sentinel,New York a lion by the door.
By my camp fire I grew older,There were chipmunks on my shoulder,While I saw the world,With the eyes of my boat,As one land,With Asia and Alaska by the ice bound as one,The Aurora Borealis was a cross bright as the sun.I seemed to live through myriad days.My eyes looked down like searching rays.I took my flight over many races,I saw, in my thought, all human faces.And my spirit had its fill.And the thread in my wrist wound in againThe cobweb shortened, strand on strand,And my little ship came back to landAnd was only a feather in my hand.
Some words about singing this song,Are written this border along.
Some words about singing this song,Are written this border along.
I read the aspens like a book, and every leaf was signed,And I climbed above the aspen-grove to read what I could findOn Mount Clinton, Colorado, I met a mountain-cat.I will call him “Andrew Jackson,” and I mean no harm by that.He was growling, and devouring a terrific mountain-rat.But when the feast was ended, the mountain-cat was kind,And showed a pretty smile, and spoke his mind.“I am dreaming of old Boston,” he said, and wiped his jaws.
I read the aspens like a book, and every leaf was signed,And I climbed above the aspen-grove to read what I could findOn Mount Clinton, Colorado, I met a mountain-cat.I will call him “Andrew Jackson,” and I mean no harm by that.He was growling, and devouring a terrific mountain-rat.But when the feast was ended, the mountain-cat was kind,And showed a pretty smile, and spoke his mind.“I am dreaming of old Boston,” he said, and wiped his jaws.
I read the aspens like a book, and every leaf was signed,And I climbed above the aspen-grove to read what I could findOn Mount Clinton, Colorado, I met a mountain-cat.I will call him “Andrew Jackson,” and I mean no harm by that.He was growling, and devouring a terrific mountain-rat.But when the feast was ended, the mountain-cat was kind,And showed a pretty smile, and spoke his mind.“I am dreaming of old Boston,” he said, and wiped his jaws.
“I have often HEARD of Boston,” and he folded in his paws,“Boston, Massachusetts, a mountain bold and great.I will tell you all about it, if you care to curl and wait.
“I have often HEARD of Boston,” and he folded in his paws,“Boston, Massachusetts, a mountain bold and great.I will tell you all about it, if you care to curl and wait.
“I have often HEARD of Boston,” and he folded in his paws,“Boston, Massachusetts, a mountain bold and great.I will tell you all about it, if you care to curl and wait.
If I cannot sing in the aspens’ tongue,If I know not what they say,Then I have never gone to school,And have wasted all my day.
If I cannot sing in the aspens’ tongue,If I know not what they say,Then I have never gone to school,And have wasted all my day.
“In the Boston of my beauty-sleep, when storm-flowers are in bloom,When storm-lilies and storm-thistles and storm-roses are in bloom,The faithful cats go creeping through the catnip-ferns,Andrainbows,andsunshine,andgloom,And pounce upon the Boston Mice, that tremble underneath the flowers,And pounce upon the big-eared rats, and drag them to the tomb.For we are Tom-policemen, vigilant and sure.We keep the Back Bay ditches and potato cellars pure.Apples are not bitten into, cheese is let alone.
“In the Boston of my beauty-sleep, when storm-flowers are in bloom,When storm-lilies and storm-thistles and storm-roses are in bloom,The faithful cats go creeping through the catnip-ferns,Andrainbows,andsunshine,andgloom,And pounce upon the Boston Mice, that tremble underneath the flowers,And pounce upon the big-eared rats, and drag them to the tomb.For we are Tom-policemen, vigilant and sure.We keep the Back Bay ditches and potato cellars pure.Apples are not bitten into, cheese is let alone.
“In the Boston of my beauty-sleep, when storm-flowers are in bloom,When storm-lilies and storm-thistles and storm-roses are in bloom,The faithful cats go creeping through the catnip-ferns,Andrainbows,andsunshine,andgloom,And pounce upon the Boston Mice, that tremble underneath the flowers,And pounce upon the big-eared rats, and drag them to the tomb.For we are Tom-policemen, vigilant and sure.We keep the Back Bay ditches and potato cellars pure.Apples are not bitten into, cheese is let alone.
THE BOSTON MOUSE WAITS IN TERROR OF THE MOUNTAIN-CAT, UNDER THE SHADOW OF THE STORM-ROSE
Come, let us whisper of men and beastsAnd joke as the aspens do,And yet be solemn in their way,And tell our thoughtsAll summer through,In the morning,In the frost,And in the midnight dew.
Come, let us whisper of men and beastsAnd joke as the aspens do,And yet be solemn in their way,And tell our thoughtsAll summer through,In the morning,In the frost,And in the midnight dew.
Sweet corn is left upon the cob, and the beef left on the bone.Every Sunday morning, the Pilgrims give us codfish balls,Because we keep the poisonous rats from the Boston halls.”And then I contradicted him, in a manner firm and flat.“I have never seen, in the famous Hub, suppression of the rat.”“So much the worse for Boston,” said the whiskery mountain-cat.And the cat continued his great dream, closing one shrewd eye:“The Tower-of-Babel Cactus blazes above the sky.Fangs and sabers guard the buds and crimson fruits on high.Yet cactus-eating eagles and black hawks hum through the air.When the pigeons weep in Copley Square, look up, those wings are there,
Sweet corn is left upon the cob, and the beef left on the bone.Every Sunday morning, the Pilgrims give us codfish balls,Because we keep the poisonous rats from the Boston halls.”And then I contradicted him, in a manner firm and flat.“I have never seen, in the famous Hub, suppression of the rat.”“So much the worse for Boston,” said the whiskery mountain-cat.And the cat continued his great dream, closing one shrewd eye:“The Tower-of-Babel Cactus blazes above the sky.Fangs and sabers guard the buds and crimson fruits on high.Yet cactus-eating eagles and black hawks hum through the air.When the pigeons weep in Copley Square, look up, those wings are there,
Sweet corn is left upon the cob, and the beef left on the bone.Every Sunday morning, the Pilgrims give us codfish balls,Because we keep the poisonous rats from the Boston halls.”And then I contradicted him, in a manner firm and flat.“I have never seen, in the famous Hub, suppression of the rat.”“So much the worse for Boston,” said the whiskery mountain-cat.
And the cat continued his great dream, closing one shrewd eye:“The Tower-of-Babel Cactus blazes above the sky.Fangs and sabers guard the buds and crimson fruits on high.Yet cactus-eating eagles and black hawks hum through the air.When the pigeons weep in Copley Square, look up, those wings are there,
THE TOWER-OF-BABEL CACTUSBLAZES ABOVE THE SKY
The mountain-cat seems violent,And of no good intent.Yet read his words so gentlyNo bird will leave its tree,No child will hate the simper or the noiseAnd hurry away from you and me.Read like a meditative, catlike willow-tree.
The mountain-cat seems violent,And of no good intent.Yet read his words so gentlyNo bird will leave its tree,No child will hate the simper or the noiseAnd hurry away from you and me.Read like a meditative, catlike willow-tree.
Some words about singing this song,Are scattered this border along.
Some words about singing this song,Are scattered this border along.
Proud Yankee birds of prey, overshadowing the land,Screaming to younger Yankees of the self-same brand,Whose talk is like the American flag, snapping on the summit-pole,Sky-rocket and star-spangled words, round sunflower words, they use them whole.There are no tailors in command, men seem like trees in honest leaves.Their clothes are but their bark and hide, and sod and binding for their sheaves.Men are as the shocks of corn, as natural as alfalfa fields.And no one yields to purse or badge; only to sweating manhood yields,To natural authority, to wisdom straight from the new sun.Who is the bull-god of the herd? The strongest and the shaggiest one.Or if they preen at all, they preen with Walter Raleigh’s gracious pride:—The forest-ranger! One grand show! With gun and spade slung at his side!Up on the dizzy timber-line, arbiter of life and fate,Where sacred frost shines all the year, and freezing bee and mossflower mate.
Proud Yankee birds of prey, overshadowing the land,Screaming to younger Yankees of the self-same brand,Whose talk is like the American flag, snapping on the summit-pole,Sky-rocket and star-spangled words, round sunflower words, they use them whole.There are no tailors in command, men seem like trees in honest leaves.Their clothes are but their bark and hide, and sod and binding for their sheaves.Men are as the shocks of corn, as natural as alfalfa fields.And no one yields to purse or badge; only to sweating manhood yields,To natural authority, to wisdom straight from the new sun.Who is the bull-god of the herd? The strongest and the shaggiest one.Or if they preen at all, they preen with Walter Raleigh’s gracious pride:—The forest-ranger! One grand show! With gun and spade slung at his side!Up on the dizzy timber-line, arbiter of life and fate,Where sacred frost shines all the year, and freezing bee and mossflower mate.
Proud Yankee birds of prey, overshadowing the land,Screaming to younger Yankees of the self-same brand,Whose talk is like the American flag, snapping on the summit-pole,Sky-rocket and star-spangled words, round sunflower words, they use them whole.There are no tailors in command, men seem like trees in honest leaves.Their clothes are but their bark and hide, and sod and binding for their sheaves.Men are as the shocks of corn, as natural as alfalfa fields.And no one yields to purse or badge; only to sweating manhood yields,To natural authority, to wisdom straight from the new sun.Who is the bull-god of the herd? The strongest and the shaggiest one.Or if they preen at all, they preen with Walter Raleigh’s gracious pride:—The forest-ranger! One grand show! With gun and spade slung at his side!Up on the dizzy timber-line, arbiter of life and fate,Where sacred frost shines all the year, and freezing bee and mossflower mate.
Read like the Mariposa with the stately stem,With green jade leaves like ripples and like waves,And white jade petals,Smooth as foam can be—The Mariposa lily, that is leaning upon the young stream’s hem,Speaking grandly to that larger flowerThat grows down toward the sea, hour after hourHunting for the Pacific storms and caves.
Read like the Mariposa with the stately stem,With green jade leaves like ripples and like waves,And white jade petals,Smooth as foam can be—The Mariposa lily, that is leaning upon the young stream’s hem,Speaking grandly to that larger flowerThat grows down toward the sea, hour after hourHunting for the Pacific storms and caves.
“Boston is tough country, and the ranger rides with death,Plunges to stop the forest fire against the black smoke’s breath,Buries the cattle killed by eating larkspur lush and blue,Shoots the calf-thieves, lumber-thieves, and gets train-robbers too.
“Boston is tough country, and the ranger rides with death,Plunges to stop the forest fire against the black smoke’s breath,Buries the cattle killed by eating larkspur lush and blue,Shoots the calf-thieves, lumber-thieves, and gets train-robbers too.
“Boston is tough country, and the ranger rides with death,Plunges to stop the forest fire against the black smoke’s breath,Buries the cattle killed by eating larkspur lush and blue,Shoots the calf-thieves, lumber-thieves, and gets train-robbers too.
Some words about singing this song,Are scattered this border along.
Some words about singing this song,Are scattered this border along.
Governor and Sheriff obey his ordering hand,Following his ostrich plume across the amber sand.“But often, for lone days he goes, exploring cliffs afar,And chants his King James’ Bible to tarantula and star.I hear him read Egyptian tales, as he rides by in the dawn.I am sometimes an Egyptian cat. My crudities are gone.He spells, in Greek, that Homer, as he hurries on alone.I hear him scan at Virgil, as I hide behind a stone.“He had kept me fond of Hawthorne, and Thoreau, cold and wise.The silvery waves of Walden Pond, gleam in a bobcat’s eyes.He has taught us grateful beasts to sing, like Orpheus of old.The Boston forest ranger brings back the Age of Gold.”And then I contradicted him, in a manner firm and flat.
Governor and Sheriff obey his ordering hand,Following his ostrich plume across the amber sand.“But often, for lone days he goes, exploring cliffs afar,And chants his King James’ Bible to tarantula and star.I hear him read Egyptian tales, as he rides by in the dawn.I am sometimes an Egyptian cat. My crudities are gone.He spells, in Greek, that Homer, as he hurries on alone.I hear him scan at Virgil, as I hide behind a stone.“He had kept me fond of Hawthorne, and Thoreau, cold and wise.The silvery waves of Walden Pond, gleam in a bobcat’s eyes.He has taught us grateful beasts to sing, like Orpheus of old.The Boston forest ranger brings back the Age of Gold.”And then I contradicted him, in a manner firm and flat.
Governor and Sheriff obey his ordering hand,Following his ostrich plume across the amber sand.“But often, for lone days he goes, exploring cliffs afar,And chants his King James’ Bible to tarantula and star.I hear him read Egyptian tales, as he rides by in the dawn.I am sometimes an Egyptian cat. My crudities are gone.He spells, in Greek, that Homer, as he hurries on alone.I hear him scan at Virgil, as I hide behind a stone.“He had kept me fond of Hawthorne, and Thoreau, cold and wise.The silvery waves of Walden Pond, gleam in a bobcat’s eyes.He has taught us grateful beasts to sing, like Orpheus of old.The Boston forest ranger brings back the Age of Gold.”
And then I contradicted him, in a manner firm and flat.
A BACK-BAY WHALE
“I have never heard, in the cultured Hub, of rowdy men like that.”“So much the worse for Boston,” said the Rocky Mountain cat.
“I have never heard, in the cultured Hub, of rowdy men like that.”“So much the worse for Boston,” said the Rocky Mountain cat.
“I have never heard, in the cultured Hub, of rowdy men like that.”“So much the worse for Boston,” said the Rocky Mountain cat.
Sing like the Mariposa to the stream that seeks the sea,Speak like that flower,With still,Olympian jest,And cuplike wordFilling the hour.
Sing like the Mariposa to the stream that seeks the sea,Speak like that flower,With still,Olympian jest,And cuplike wordFilling the hour.
And the cat purred on, in his great dream, as one who seeks the noblest ends:—“Higher than the Back Bay whales, that spout and leap, and bite their friends,Higher than those Moby-Dicks, the Boston Lover’s trail ascends.Higher than the Methodist, or Unitarian spire,Beyond the range of any fence of bowlder or barbed wire,Telling to each other what the Boston Boys have done,The lodge-pole pines go towering to the timber-line and sun.And their whisper stirs love’s fury in each pantherish girl-child,Till she dresses like a columbine, or a bleeding heart gone wild.Like a harebell, golden aster, bluebell, Indian arrow,Blue jay, squirrel, meadow lark, loco, mountain sparrow.Mayflower, sagebrush, dying swan, they court in disarray.The masquerade, in Love’s hot name, is like a forest-play.And she is held in worship who adores the noblest boys.So miner-lovers bring her new amazing pets and toys.Mewing, prowling hunters bring her grizzlies in chains.Ranchers bring red apples through the silver rains.In the mountain of my beauty-sleep, when storm-flowersAre in bloom,The Boston of my beauty-sleep, when storm-flowersAre in bloom.There are just such naked waterfalls, as are roaring there below.For the springs of Boston Common are from priceless summer snow.Serene the wind-cleared Boston peaks, and there white rabbits runLike funny giant snowflakes, hopping in the sun.The ptarmigan will leap and fly and clutter through the driftAnd the baby ptarmigans ‘peep, peep,’ when the weasel eyelids lift.And where the pools are still and deep, dwarf willows see themselves,And the Boston Mariposas bend, like mirror-kissing elves.White is the gypsum cliff, and white the snowbird’s warm, deep-feathered home,White are the cottonwood and birch, white is the fountain-foam.“In the waterfalls from the sunburnt cliffs, the bold nymphs leap and shriekThe wrath of the water makes them fight, its kisses make them weak.With shoulders hot with sunburn, with bodies rose and white,And streaming curls like sunrise rays, or curls like flags of night,Flowing to their dancing feet, circling them in storm,And their adorers glory in each lean, Ionic form.Oh, the hearts of women, then set free. They live the life of oldThat chickadees and bobcats sing, the famous Age of Gold....They sleep and star-gaze on the grass, their red-ore camp fires shine,Like heaps of unset rubies spilled on velvet superfine.And love of man and maid is when the granite weds the snow-white stream.The ranch house bursts with babies. In the wood-lot deep eyes gleam,Buffalo children, barking wolves, fuming cinnamon bears.Human mustangs kick the paint from the breakfast-table chairs.”And then I contradicted him, in a manner firm and flat.“I have never heard, in the modest Hub, of a stock ill-bred as that.”“So much the worse for Boston,” said the lecherous mountain-cat.And the cat continued with the dream, as the snow blew round in drifts.“The caves beneath the craggy sides of Boston hold tremendous giftsFor many youths that enter there, and lift up every stone that lifts.They wander in, and wander on, finding all new things they can,Some forms of jade or chrysoprase, more rare than radium for man.And the burro trains, to fetch the loot, are jolly fool parades.The burros flap their ears and bray, and take the steepest grades.Or loaded with long mining-drills, and railroad rails, and boards for flumes,Up Beacon Hill with fossil bats, swine bones from geologic tombs,Or loaded with cliff-mummies of lost dwellers of the land.Explorers’ yells and bridle bells sound above the sand.“In the desert of my beauty-sleep, when rainflowersWill not bloom,In the Boston of my beauty-sleep, when stormsWill not bloom,
And the cat purred on, in his great dream, as one who seeks the noblest ends:—“Higher than the Back Bay whales, that spout and leap, and bite their friends,Higher than those Moby-Dicks, the Boston Lover’s trail ascends.Higher than the Methodist, or Unitarian spire,Beyond the range of any fence of bowlder or barbed wire,Telling to each other what the Boston Boys have done,The lodge-pole pines go towering to the timber-line and sun.And their whisper stirs love’s fury in each pantherish girl-child,Till she dresses like a columbine, or a bleeding heart gone wild.Like a harebell, golden aster, bluebell, Indian arrow,Blue jay, squirrel, meadow lark, loco, mountain sparrow.Mayflower, sagebrush, dying swan, they court in disarray.The masquerade, in Love’s hot name, is like a forest-play.And she is held in worship who adores the noblest boys.So miner-lovers bring her new amazing pets and toys.Mewing, prowling hunters bring her grizzlies in chains.Ranchers bring red apples through the silver rains.In the mountain of my beauty-sleep, when storm-flowersAre in bloom,The Boston of my beauty-sleep, when storm-flowersAre in bloom.There are just such naked waterfalls, as are roaring there below.For the springs of Boston Common are from priceless summer snow.Serene the wind-cleared Boston peaks, and there white rabbits runLike funny giant snowflakes, hopping in the sun.The ptarmigan will leap and fly and clutter through the driftAnd the baby ptarmigans ‘peep, peep,’ when the weasel eyelids lift.And where the pools are still and deep, dwarf willows see themselves,And the Boston Mariposas bend, like mirror-kissing elves.White is the gypsum cliff, and white the snowbird’s warm, deep-feathered home,White are the cottonwood and birch, white is the fountain-foam.“In the waterfalls from the sunburnt cliffs, the bold nymphs leap and shriekThe wrath of the water makes them fight, its kisses make them weak.With shoulders hot with sunburn, with bodies rose and white,And streaming curls like sunrise rays, or curls like flags of night,Flowing to their dancing feet, circling them in storm,And their adorers glory in each lean, Ionic form.Oh, the hearts of women, then set free. They live the life of oldThat chickadees and bobcats sing, the famous Age of Gold....They sleep and star-gaze on the grass, their red-ore camp fires shine,Like heaps of unset rubies spilled on velvet superfine.And love of man and maid is when the granite weds the snow-white stream.The ranch house bursts with babies. In the wood-lot deep eyes gleam,Buffalo children, barking wolves, fuming cinnamon bears.Human mustangs kick the paint from the breakfast-table chairs.”And then I contradicted him, in a manner firm and flat.“I have never heard, in the modest Hub, of a stock ill-bred as that.”“So much the worse for Boston,” said the lecherous mountain-cat.And the cat continued with the dream, as the snow blew round in drifts.“The caves beneath the craggy sides of Boston hold tremendous giftsFor many youths that enter there, and lift up every stone that lifts.They wander in, and wander on, finding all new things they can,Some forms of jade or chrysoprase, more rare than radium for man.And the burro trains, to fetch the loot, are jolly fool parades.The burros flap their ears and bray, and take the steepest grades.Or loaded with long mining-drills, and railroad rails, and boards for flumes,Up Beacon Hill with fossil bats, swine bones from geologic tombs,Or loaded with cliff-mummies of lost dwellers of the land.Explorers’ yells and bridle bells sound above the sand.“In the desert of my beauty-sleep, when rainflowersWill not bloom,In the Boston of my beauty-sleep, when stormsWill not bloom,
And the cat purred on, in his great dream, as one who seeks the noblest ends:—“Higher than the Back Bay whales, that spout and leap, and bite their friends,Higher than those Moby-Dicks, the Boston Lover’s trail ascends.Higher than the Methodist, or Unitarian spire,Beyond the range of any fence of bowlder or barbed wire,Telling to each other what the Boston Boys have done,The lodge-pole pines go towering to the timber-line and sun.And their whisper stirs love’s fury in each pantherish girl-child,Till she dresses like a columbine, or a bleeding heart gone wild.Like a harebell, golden aster, bluebell, Indian arrow,Blue jay, squirrel, meadow lark, loco, mountain sparrow.Mayflower, sagebrush, dying swan, they court in disarray.The masquerade, in Love’s hot name, is like a forest-play.And she is held in worship who adores the noblest boys.So miner-lovers bring her new amazing pets and toys.Mewing, prowling hunters bring her grizzlies in chains.Ranchers bring red apples through the silver rains.In the mountain of my beauty-sleep, when storm-flowersAre in bloom,The Boston of my beauty-sleep, when storm-flowersAre in bloom.There are just such naked waterfalls, as are roaring there below.For the springs of Boston Common are from priceless summer snow.Serene the wind-cleared Boston peaks, and there white rabbits runLike funny giant snowflakes, hopping in the sun.The ptarmigan will leap and fly and clutter through the driftAnd the baby ptarmigans ‘peep, peep,’ when the weasel eyelids lift.And where the pools are still and deep, dwarf willows see themselves,And the Boston Mariposas bend, like mirror-kissing elves.White is the gypsum cliff, and white the snowbird’s warm, deep-feathered home,White are the cottonwood and birch, white is the fountain-foam.
“In the waterfalls from the sunburnt cliffs, the bold nymphs leap and shriekThe wrath of the water makes them fight, its kisses make them weak.
With shoulders hot with sunburn, with bodies rose and white,And streaming curls like sunrise rays, or curls like flags of night,Flowing to their dancing feet, circling them in storm,And their adorers glory in each lean, Ionic form.Oh, the hearts of women, then set free. They live the life of oldThat chickadees and bobcats sing, the famous Age of Gold....They sleep and star-gaze on the grass, their red-ore camp fires shine,Like heaps of unset rubies spilled on velvet superfine.And love of man and maid is when the granite weds the snow-white stream.The ranch house bursts with babies. In the wood-lot deep eyes gleam,Buffalo children, barking wolves, fuming cinnamon bears.Human mustangs kick the paint from the breakfast-table chairs.”
And then I contradicted him, in a manner firm and flat.“I have never heard, in the modest Hub, of a stock ill-bred as that.”“So much the worse for Boston,” said the lecherous mountain-cat.
And the cat continued with the dream, as the snow blew round in drifts.“The caves beneath the craggy sides of Boston hold tremendous giftsFor many youths that enter there, and lift up every stone that lifts.They wander in, and wander on, finding all new things they can,Some forms of jade or chrysoprase, more rare than radium for man.And the burro trains, to fetch the loot, are jolly fool parades.The burros flap their ears and bray, and take the steepest grades.Or loaded with long mining-drills, and railroad rails, and boards for flumes,Up Beacon Hill with fossil bats, swine bones from geologic tombs,Or loaded with cliff-mummies of lost dwellers of the land.Explorers’ yells and bridle bells sound above the sand.
“In the desert of my beauty-sleep, when rainflowersWill not bloom,In the Boston of my beauty-sleep, when stormsWill not bloom,
THE BAT
By Bunker Hill’s tall obelisk, till the August sun awakes,I brood and stalk blue shadows, and my mad heart breaks.Thoughts of a hunt unutterable ring the obelisk around.And a thousand glorious sphinxes spring, singing, from the ground.Very white young Salem witches ride them down the west.The gravel makes a flat, lone track, the eye has endless rest.Fair girls and beasts charge, dreaming, through the salt-sand white as snow,Hunting the three-toed pony, while mysterious slaughters flow.And the bat from the salt desert sucks the clouds on highUntil they fall in ashes, and all the sky is dry.Oh, the empty Spanish Missions, where the bells ring without hand,As we drive the shadowy dinosaurs and mammoths through the sand.”And then I contradicted him, in a manner firm and flat.“I have never seen, in the sun-kissed Hub, circuses like that.”“So much the worse for you, my cub,” said the slant-eyed mountain-cat.And the cat continued with his yarn, while I stood there marveling:—“I here proclaim that I am not a vague, an abstract thing.I like to eat the turkey-leg, the lamb, the chickenwing.Yet the cat that knows not fasting, the cat that knows not dream,That has not drunk dim mammoth-blood from the long-dead desert stream,That has not rolled in the alkali-encrusted pits of bonesBy the saber-toothed white tiger’s cave, where he kicked the ancient stones,Has not known sacred Boston. Our gods are burning ore.Our Colorado gods are the stars of heaven’s floor.But the god of Massachusetts is a Tiger they adore.“From that saber-tooth’s ghost-purring goes the whispered word of powerIn the sunset, in the moonlight, in the purple sunrise hour:—That an Indian chief is born, in a teepee, to the west,That a school of rattlesnakes is rattling, on the mountain’s breast,That an opal has been grubbed from the ground by a mole,That a bumble-bee has found a new way to save his soul.In Egyptian granite Boston, the rumor has gone roundThat new ways to tame the whirlwind have been marvelously found.That a Balanced Rock has fallen, that a battle has been wonIn the soul of some young touch-me-not, some tigerish Emerson.”And then I contradicted him, in a manner firm and flat.“Boston people do not read their Emerson like that.”“So much the worse for Boston,” said the self-reliant cat.Then I saw the cat there towering, like a cat cut from a hill:—A prophet-beast of Nature’s law, staring with stony will,Pacing on the icy top, then stretched in drowsy thought,Then, listening, on tiptoe, to the voice the snowwind brought,Tearing at the fire-killed pine trees, kittenish again,Then speaking like a lion, long made president of men:—“There are such holy plains and streams, there are such sky-arched spaces,There are life-long trails for private lives, and endless whispering places.Range is so wide there is not room for lust and poison breathAnd flesh may walk in Eden, forgetting shame and death.”And then I contradicted him, in a manner firm and flat.“I have never heard, in Boston, of anything like that.”“Boston is peculiar.Boston is mysterious.You do not know your Boston,” said the wise, fastidious cat,And turned again to lick the skull of his prey, the mountain-rat!And at that, he broke off his wild dream of a perfect human race.And I walked down to the aspen grove where is neither time nor place,Nor measurement, nor space, except that grass has roomAnd aspen leaves whisper on forever in their grace.All day they watch along the banks. All night the perfume goesFrom the Mariposa’s chalice to the marble mountain-rose,In the Boston of their beauty-sleep, when storm-flowersAre in bloom,In the mystery of their beauty-sleep, when storm-flowersAre in bloom.
By Bunker Hill’s tall obelisk, till the August sun awakes,I brood and stalk blue shadows, and my mad heart breaks.Thoughts of a hunt unutterable ring the obelisk around.And a thousand glorious sphinxes spring, singing, from the ground.Very white young Salem witches ride them down the west.The gravel makes a flat, lone track, the eye has endless rest.Fair girls and beasts charge, dreaming, through the salt-sand white as snow,Hunting the three-toed pony, while mysterious slaughters flow.And the bat from the salt desert sucks the clouds on highUntil they fall in ashes, and all the sky is dry.Oh, the empty Spanish Missions, where the bells ring without hand,As we drive the shadowy dinosaurs and mammoths through the sand.”And then I contradicted him, in a manner firm and flat.“I have never seen, in the sun-kissed Hub, circuses like that.”“So much the worse for you, my cub,” said the slant-eyed mountain-cat.And the cat continued with his yarn, while I stood there marveling:—“I here proclaim that I am not a vague, an abstract thing.I like to eat the turkey-leg, the lamb, the chickenwing.Yet the cat that knows not fasting, the cat that knows not dream,That has not drunk dim mammoth-blood from the long-dead desert stream,That has not rolled in the alkali-encrusted pits of bonesBy the saber-toothed white tiger’s cave, where he kicked the ancient stones,Has not known sacred Boston. Our gods are burning ore.Our Colorado gods are the stars of heaven’s floor.But the god of Massachusetts is a Tiger they adore.“From that saber-tooth’s ghost-purring goes the whispered word of powerIn the sunset, in the moonlight, in the purple sunrise hour:—That an Indian chief is born, in a teepee, to the west,That a school of rattlesnakes is rattling, on the mountain’s breast,That an opal has been grubbed from the ground by a mole,That a bumble-bee has found a new way to save his soul.In Egyptian granite Boston, the rumor has gone roundThat new ways to tame the whirlwind have been marvelously found.That a Balanced Rock has fallen, that a battle has been wonIn the soul of some young touch-me-not, some tigerish Emerson.”And then I contradicted him, in a manner firm and flat.“Boston people do not read their Emerson like that.”“So much the worse for Boston,” said the self-reliant cat.Then I saw the cat there towering, like a cat cut from a hill:—A prophet-beast of Nature’s law, staring with stony will,Pacing on the icy top, then stretched in drowsy thought,Then, listening, on tiptoe, to the voice the snowwind brought,Tearing at the fire-killed pine trees, kittenish again,Then speaking like a lion, long made president of men:—“There are such holy plains and streams, there are such sky-arched spaces,There are life-long trails for private lives, and endless whispering places.Range is so wide there is not room for lust and poison breathAnd flesh may walk in Eden, forgetting shame and death.”And then I contradicted him, in a manner firm and flat.“I have never heard, in Boston, of anything like that.”“Boston is peculiar.Boston is mysterious.You do not know your Boston,” said the wise, fastidious cat,And turned again to lick the skull of his prey, the mountain-rat!And at that, he broke off his wild dream of a perfect human race.And I walked down to the aspen grove where is neither time nor place,Nor measurement, nor space, except that grass has roomAnd aspen leaves whisper on forever in their grace.All day they watch along the banks. All night the perfume goesFrom the Mariposa’s chalice to the marble mountain-rose,In the Boston of their beauty-sleep, when storm-flowersAre in bloom,In the mystery of their beauty-sleep, when storm-flowersAre in bloom.
By Bunker Hill’s tall obelisk, till the August sun awakes,I brood and stalk blue shadows, and my mad heart breaks.Thoughts of a hunt unutterable ring the obelisk around.And a thousand glorious sphinxes spring, singing, from the ground.Very white young Salem witches ride them down the west.The gravel makes a flat, lone track, the eye has endless rest.Fair girls and beasts charge, dreaming, through the salt-sand white as snow,Hunting the three-toed pony, while mysterious slaughters flow.And the bat from the salt desert sucks the clouds on highUntil they fall in ashes, and all the sky is dry.Oh, the empty Spanish Missions, where the bells ring without hand,As we drive the shadowy dinosaurs and mammoths through the sand.”
And then I contradicted him, in a manner firm and flat.“I have never seen, in the sun-kissed Hub, circuses like that.”“So much the worse for you, my cub,” said the slant-eyed mountain-cat.
And the cat continued with his yarn, while I stood there marveling:—“I here proclaim that I am not a vague, an abstract thing.I like to eat the turkey-leg, the lamb, the chickenwing.Yet the cat that knows not fasting, the cat that knows not dream,That has not drunk dim mammoth-blood from the long-dead desert stream,That has not rolled in the alkali-encrusted pits of bonesBy the saber-toothed white tiger’s cave, where he kicked the ancient stones,Has not known sacred Boston. Our gods are burning ore.Our Colorado gods are the stars of heaven’s floor.But the god of Massachusetts is a Tiger they adore.
“From that saber-tooth’s ghost-purring goes the whispered word of powerIn the sunset, in the moonlight, in the purple sunrise hour:—That an Indian chief is born, in a teepee, to the west,That a school of rattlesnakes is rattling, on the mountain’s breast,That an opal has been grubbed from the ground by a mole,That a bumble-bee has found a new way to save his soul.In Egyptian granite Boston, the rumor has gone roundThat new ways to tame the whirlwind have been marvelously found.That a Balanced Rock has fallen, that a battle has been wonIn the soul of some young touch-me-not, some tigerish Emerson.”
And then I contradicted him, in a manner firm and flat.“Boston people do not read their Emerson like that.”“So much the worse for Boston,” said the self-reliant cat.Then I saw the cat there towering, like a cat cut from a hill:—A prophet-beast of Nature’s law, staring with stony will,Pacing on the icy top, then stretched in drowsy thought,Then, listening, on tiptoe, to the voice the snowwind brought,Tearing at the fire-killed pine trees, kittenish again,Then speaking like a lion, long made president of men:—“There are such holy plains and streams, there are such sky-arched spaces,There are life-long trails for private lives, and endless whispering places.Range is so wide there is not room for lust and poison breathAnd flesh may walk in Eden, forgetting shame and death.”
And then I contradicted him, in a manner firm and flat.“I have never heard, in Boston, of anything like that.”“Boston is peculiar.Boston is mysterious.You do not know your Boston,” said the wise, fastidious cat,And turned again to lick the skull of his prey, the mountain-rat!And at that, he broke off his wild dream of a perfect human race.And I walked down to the aspen grove where is neither time nor place,Nor measurement, nor space, except that grass has roomAnd aspen leaves whisper on forever in their grace.All day they watch along the banks. All night the perfume goesFrom the Mariposa’s chalice to the marble mountain-rose,In the Boston of their beauty-sleep, when storm-flowersAre in bloom,In the mystery of their beauty-sleep, when storm-flowersAre in bloom.
ROCKETS ON THE WAY TO SATURN
On the Fourth of July sky rockets went upOver the church and the trees and the town,Stripes and stars, riding red cars.Each rocket wore a red-white-and-blue gown,And I did not see one rocket come down.Next day on the hill I found dead sticks,Scorched like blown-out candle-wicks.But where are the rockets? Up in the sky.As for the sticks, let them lie.Dead sticks are not the Fourth of July.In Saturn they grow like wonderful weeds,In some ways like weeds of ours,Twisted and beautiful, straight and awry,But nodding all day to the heavenly powers.The stalks are smoke,And the blossoms green light,And crystalline fireworks flowers.
On the Fourth of July sky rockets went upOver the church and the trees and the town,Stripes and stars, riding red cars.Each rocket wore a red-white-and-blue gown,And I did not see one rocket come down.Next day on the hill I found dead sticks,Scorched like blown-out candle-wicks.But where are the rockets? Up in the sky.As for the sticks, let them lie.Dead sticks are not the Fourth of July.In Saturn they grow like wonderful weeds,In some ways like weeds of ours,Twisted and beautiful, straight and awry,But nodding all day to the heavenly powers.The stalks are smoke,And the blossoms green light,And crystalline fireworks flowers.
On the Fourth of July sky rockets went upOver the church and the trees and the town,Stripes and stars, riding red cars.Each rocket wore a red-white-and-blue gown,And I did not see one rocket come down.
Next day on the hill I found dead sticks,Scorched like blown-out candle-wicks.
But where are the rockets? Up in the sky.As for the sticks, let them lie.Dead sticks are not the Fourth of July.
In Saturn they grow like wonderful weeds,In some ways like weeds of ours,Twisted and beautiful, straight and awry,But nodding all day to the heavenly powers.The stalks are smoke,And the blossoms green light,And crystalline fireworks flowers.
ROCKETS IN SATURN
A spirit in soft slippersWalked the Gulf Stream floor.She opened many a cabin doorOf ships a long time underseas.She read long-rest Egyptian booksAnd looked upon skull-faces,And read their restless looksShining through the shadowsOf phosphorescent streaming waves,—Impatient for the Judgment hornTo lift them from their purple graves.
A spirit in soft slippersWalked the Gulf Stream floor.She opened many a cabin doorOf ships a long time underseas.She read long-rest Egyptian booksAnd looked upon skull-faces,And read their restless looksShining through the shadowsOf phosphorescent streaming waves,—Impatient for the Judgment hornTo lift them from their purple graves.
A spirit in soft slippersWalked the Gulf Stream floor.She opened many a cabin doorOf ships a long time underseas.She read long-rest Egyptian booksAnd looked upon skull-faces,And read their restless looksShining through the shadowsOf phosphorescent streaming waves,—Impatient for the Judgment hornTo lift them from their purple graves.
The Moon’s a devil-jesterWho makes himself too free.The rascal is not alwaysWhere he appears to be:—Sometimes he is in my heart—Sometimes in the sea.Then tides are in my heart,And tides are in the sea.O traveler! abiding notWhere he pretends to be!
The Moon’s a devil-jesterWho makes himself too free.The rascal is not alwaysWhere he appears to be:—Sometimes he is in my heart—Sometimes in the sea.Then tides are in my heart,And tides are in the sea.O traveler! abiding notWhere he pretends to be!
The Moon’s a devil-jesterWho makes himself too free.The rascal is not alwaysWhere he appears to be:—Sometimes he is in my heart—Sometimes in the sea.Then tides are in my heart,And tides are in the sea.O traveler! abiding notWhere he pretends to be!
Elizabeth Barrett BrowningSat gossiping with Robert.(She was really a raving beauty in her day.With Mary Pickford curls in clouds and whirls.)She was trying to think of something nice to say,So she pointed to a page by her fellow star and sage,And said: “I wish thatIcould write that way!”
Elizabeth Barrett BrowningSat gossiping with Robert.(She was really a raving beauty in her day.With Mary Pickford curls in clouds and whirls.)She was trying to think of something nice to say,So she pointed to a page by her fellow star and sage,And said: “I wish thatIcould write that way!”
Elizabeth Barrett BrowningSat gossiping with Robert.(She was really a raving beauty in her day.With Mary Pickford curls in clouds and whirls.)She was trying to think of something nice to say,So she pointed to a page by her fellow star and sage,And said: “I wish thatIcould write that way!”
Some balloons grow on trees,On rubber trees, indeed.You plant old rubber-boots for seed.Some balloons grow on trees.If you want them red,You pour red ink into the boots,There in the balloon bed,And blue ink if you want them blue.But if you desire them green,Just let it pass.They will turn green to match the grass.Some balloons grow on trees.And if you do not spray them soonWith water-pots of helleboreYou will not haveOne ripe balloon.Mosquitoes will bite them in the nightExplode them like a thunder-stormAnd give the town a fright.
Some balloons grow on trees,On rubber trees, indeed.You plant old rubber-boots for seed.Some balloons grow on trees.If you want them red,You pour red ink into the boots,There in the balloon bed,And blue ink if you want them blue.But if you desire them green,Just let it pass.They will turn green to match the grass.Some balloons grow on trees.And if you do not spray them soonWith water-pots of helleboreYou will not haveOne ripe balloon.Mosquitoes will bite them in the nightExplode them like a thunder-stormAnd give the town a fright.
Some balloons grow on trees,On rubber trees, indeed.You plant old rubber-boots for seed.
Some balloons grow on trees.If you want them red,You pour red ink into the boots,There in the balloon bed,
And blue ink if you want them blue.But if you desire them green,Just let it pass.They will turn green to match the grass.
Some balloons grow on trees.And if you do not spray them soonWith water-pots of helleboreYou will not haveOne ripe balloon.Mosquitoes will bite them in the nightExplode them like a thunder-stormAnd give the town a fright.
Some balloons grow on trees.If they grow too fastAnd are not gathered every dayThe infants stand aghastTo see them tear up by the rootsThe trees on which they grewAnd scatter dirt on the front walkAnd disappear from viewInto the blue.
Some balloons grow on trees.If they grow too fastAnd are not gathered every dayThe infants stand aghastTo see them tear up by the rootsThe trees on which they grewAnd scatter dirt on the front walkAnd disappear from viewInto the blue.
Some balloons grow on trees.If they grow too fastAnd are not gathered every dayThe infants stand aghastTo see them tear up by the rootsThe trees on which they grewAnd scatter dirt on the front walkAnd disappear from viewInto the blue.
There, on the shores of the river Euphrates,Babylon’s gardens are burning this morning.Prophets warned,Prophets prophesied,But no one in Babylon heeded the warning.
There, on the shores of the river Euphrates,Babylon’s gardens are burning this morning.Prophets warned,Prophets prophesied,But no one in Babylon heeded the warning.
There, on the shores of the river Euphrates,Babylon’s gardens are burning this morning.Prophets warned,Prophets prophesied,But no one in Babylon heeded the warning.
A jumbo so vain, and fond of his shapeHad himself beautified by a gray ape,Tattooed and gilded with elegant signs,The latest and merriest monkey designs.Then the ape rode the jumboAnd made the land gape,As he sat at his ease in the elephant chair.He had tattooed himself with designs from a shawl,And he gathered a grape with a self-possessed air,And threw down a twig at another fine ape.
A jumbo so vain, and fond of his shapeHad himself beautified by a gray ape,Tattooed and gilded with elegant signs,The latest and merriest monkey designs.Then the ape rode the jumboAnd made the land gape,As he sat at his ease in the elephant chair.He had tattooed himself with designs from a shawl,And he gathered a grape with a self-possessed air,And threw down a twig at another fine ape.
A jumbo so vain, and fond of his shapeHad himself beautified by a gray ape,Tattooed and gilded with elegant signs,The latest and merriest monkey designs.Then the ape rode the jumboAnd made the land gape,As he sat at his ease in the elephant chair.He had tattooed himself with designs from a shawl,And he gathered a grape with a self-possessed air,And threw down a twig at another fine ape.
A duck within the harem of a drake who ran for presidentSwam in his parade, and made it an event.She carried a big card of his footprints and she said:—“He waddles like an arrow, straight ahead.”
A duck within the harem of a drake who ran for presidentSwam in his parade, and made it an event.She carried a big card of his footprints and she said:—“He waddles like an arrow, straight ahead.”
A duck within the harem of a drake who ran for presidentSwam in his parade, and made it an event.She carried a big card of his footprints and she said:—“He waddles like an arrow, straight ahead.”
Old Judge Hoot Owl sits by his inkwellWriting wills for the wealthy and swell.He knows something he won’t tell.Three little house flies, drowned in his inkwell.Three little scandals in a peanut shell.
Old Judge Hoot Owl sits by his inkwellWriting wills for the wealthy and swell.He knows something he won’t tell.Three little house flies, drowned in his inkwell.Three little scandals in a peanut shell.
Old Judge Hoot Owl sits by his inkwellWriting wills for the wealthy and swell.He knows something he won’t tell.Three little house flies, drowned in his inkwell.Three little scandals in a peanut shell.