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.

II

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

III

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
Singing!

IV

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

V

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

VI

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

VII

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

October Morning

October is brown
In field and row—­

     Yet goldenrod
     And goldenglow,
     Purple asters
     And ruddy oaks,
     Sumach spreading
     Crimson cloaks,
     Apples red
     And pumpkins gold—?

Perhaps it’s gayer
To be old!

October Afternoon

The air is warm and winey-sweet,
Over my head the oak-leaves shine
Like rich Madeira, glossy brown,
Or garnet red, like old Port wine. 
Wild grapes are ripening on the hill,
Dead leaves curl thickly at my feet,
Yet not one falls, it is so still. 
Crickets are singing in the sun,
And aimlessly grasshoppers leap
From discontent to discontent,
Their days of leaping nearly done. 
There’s a rich quietness of earth
That holds no promise any more,
And like a cup, Today is filled
With the last wine the year shall pour.

Maternity

Sturdy is earth,
Dull and mighty,
Unresentful—­
Of her own fertility
Covering scars
With healing green.

You cannot anger earth,
You cannot cause her pain
Nor make her remember
Your hungry, querulous love.

At last your unwilling body
She tranquilly receives
And turns it to her uses.

The Father Speaks

My little son, when you were born
     There died a being, sweet and wild,
     A lovely, careless, radiant child,
A passionate woman—­her I mourn.