Who robbed the woods

XVII.

Who robbed the woods,

The trusting woods?

The unsuspecting trees

Brought out their burrs and mosses

His fantasy to please.

He scanned their trinkets, curious,

He grasped, he bore away.

What will the solemn hemlock,

What will the fir-tree say?

Saint Stephens Indian Mission, Saint Stephens, Wyoming.

The sun just touched the morning

V.

The sun just touched the morning,

The morning, happy thing,

Supposed that he had come to dwell,

And life would be all spring.

She felt herself supremer, -

A raised, ethereal thing;

Henceforth for her what holiday!

Meanwhile, her wheeling king

Trailed slow along the orchards

His haughty, spangled hems,

Leaving a new necessity, -

The want of diadems!

The morning fluttered, staggered,

Felt feebly for her crown, -

Her unanointed forehead

Henceforth her only one.

Lander, Wyoming.

It sifts from leaden sieves

L.

It sifts from leaden sieves,

It powders all the wood,

It fills with alabaster wool

The wrinkles of the road.

It makes an even face

Of mountain and of plain, -

Unbroken forehead from the east

Unto the east again.

It reaches to the fence,

It wraps it rail by rail,

Till it is lost in fleeces;

It flings a crystal veil

On stump and stack and stem, -

The summer's empty room,

Acres of seams where harvests were,

Recordless, but for them.

It ruffles wrists of posts,

As ankles of a queen, -

Then stills its artisans like ghosts,

Denying they have been.

South Pass, Wyoming.

Will there really be a morning?

II.

Will there really be a morning?

Is there such a thing as day?

Could I see it from the mountains

If I were as tall as they?

Has it feet like water-lilies?

Has it feathers like a bird?

Is it brought from famous countries

Of which I have never heard?

Oh, some scholar!  Oh, some sailor!

Oh, some wise man from the skies!

Please to tell a little pilgrim

Where the place called morning lies!

Lyons Valley Road, near Lander, Wyoming.

An everywhere of silver

XXII.

An everywhere of silver,

With ropes of sand

To keep it from effacing

The track called land.

In Sinks Canyon, near Lander, Wyoming.

The mountain sat upon the plain

LXXII.

The mountain sat upon the plain

In his eternal chair,

His observation omnifold,

His inquest everywhere.

The seasons prayed around his knees,

Like children round a sire;

Grandfather of the days is he,

Of dawn the ancestor.

The Tetons, near Jackson, Wyoming.

There's a certain slant of light

LXXXII.

There's a certain slant of light,

On winter afternoons,

That oppresses, like the weight

Of cathedral tunes.

Heavenly hurt it gives us;

We can find no scar,

But internal difference

Where the meanings are.

None may teach it anything,

'T is the seal, despair, -

An imperial affliction

Sent of us the air.

When it comes, the landscape listens

Shadows hold their breath,

When it goes, 't is like the distance

On the look of death.

Sacajawea Cemetery, near Fort Washakie, Wyoming.