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(Glacier Park, Sept. 1917)


Night stands in the valley
Her head
Is bound with stars,
While Dawn, a grey-eyed nun
Steals through the silent trees.
Behind the mountains
Morning shouts and sings
And dances upward.


The peaks even today show finger prints
Where God last touched the earth
Before he set it joyously in space
Finding it good.


You, slender shining--
You, downward leaping--
Born from silent snow
To drown at last in the blue silent
Mountain lake--
You are not snow or water,
You are only a silver spirit


Sharp crags of granite,
Pointing, threatening,
Thrust fiercely up at me;
And near the edge, their menace
Would whirl me down.


Climbing desperately toward the heights
I glance in terror behind me
To be deafened--to be shattered--
By a thunderbolt of beauty.


The mountains hold communion;
They are priests, silent and austere,
They have come together
In a secret place
With unbowed heads.


This hidden lake
Is a sapphire cup--
An offering clearer than wine,
Colder than tears.
The mountains hold it toward the sky
In silence.