Wherever I wander, my spirit still dwells,
In the silvery San Juan[E] with its streamlet and dells;
Whose mountainous summits, so rugged and high,
With their pinnacles pierce the ethereal sky;
Where the daisy, the rose, and the sweet columbine
Blend their colors with those of the sober hued pine;
Where the ceaseless erosions of measureless time,
Have chiseled the grotto and canon sublime;
Have sculptured the cliff, and the stern mountain wall;
Have formed the bold turret, impressive and tall;
Have cut the deep gorge with its wonderful caves,
Sepulchral and gloomy; whose vast architraves
Support the stalactites, both pendant and white,
Which with the stalagmites beneath them unite;
Where nestles a valley, sequestered and grand,
Worn out of the rock by the same tireless hand,
Surrounded by mountains, majestic and gray,
Which smile from their heights on the Town of Ouray.

[Illustration:  “Where the ceaseless erosions of measureless time, Have chiseled the grotto and canon sublime.”

Box canon, looking inward, Ouray, Colorado.]

* * * * *

Wherever I wander, my ears hear the sound
Of thy waters, which plunge with a turbulent bound
O’er the precipice, seething and laden with foam;
My ears hear their music wherever I roam;
Where the cataract’s rhapsody, joyous and light,
Enchants in the morning and soothes in the night;
Where blend the loud thunders, sonorous and deep,
With the sobs of the rain as the black heavens weep;
Where the whispering zephyr, and murmuring breeze,
Unite with the soft, listless sigh of the trees;
And where to the fancy, the voices of air
Wail in tones of distress, or in shrieks of despair;
Where mourneth the night wind, with desolate breath,
In accents suggestive of sorrow and death;
As falls from the heavens, so fleecy and light,
The winter’s immaculate mantle of white;
Wherever I wander, these sounds greet my ears,
And the silvery San Juan to my fancy appears.

FOOTNOTES: 

[E] Pronounced San Wan.  Spanish form of St. John.

As the Shifting Sands of the Desert.

As the shifting sands of the desert
  Are born by the simoon’s wrath,
And in wanton and fleet confusion,
  Are strewn on its trackless path;
So our lives with resistless fury,
  Insensibly and unknown,
With a restless vacillation
  By the winds of fate are blown;
      But an All-Wise Hand
      May have changed the sand,
      For a purpose of His own.

As the troubled and turbulent waters,
  As the waves of the angry main,
Respond with their undulations
  To the breath of the hurricane;
So our lives on Time’s boundless ocean
  Unwittingly toss and roll,
And unconsciously drift with the current
  Which evades our assumed control;
      But a Hand of love,
      From the skies above,
      May have guided us past a shoal.