Above the Clouds

  On the shores of a sea of mist
    I chanced to roam,
  Where sunlit the surface gleamed
    Whiter than foam.

  But the voice of the restless main
    Was absent there,
  For the billows that rolled along
    Were waves of air;

  And the isles of that silent sea
    Were mountain peaks
  That, far from the haunts of man,
    The wild goat seeks.

  O, that day above the clouds
    Was bright and fair! 
  With pines and the sparkling snow
    Unsullied there;

  But, a thousand fathoms down
    A city street
  Was shrouded in sunless gloom
    Where shadows meet;

  It knew not the fairer day
    And matchless view;
  That snowfields gleamed above
    And skies were blue: 

  That the clouds which gloomed below
    Were seas of light
  From another point of view
    At greater height.

Winter Sunset in the Cascade Range

  Picture a world of snowfields
  Aglow in the sunset light,
  Great fir trees snow-flake laden
  And broken clouds piled white;
  While bathed in a silver sheen
  The pines on a crest are seen.

  Would I could frame the language
  Worthy those sunset tints,
  Hued from saffron to coral,
  Aflame where the sunlight glints;
  And the clear steel blue of the sky
  Where the clouds had drifted by.

  The daylight slowly faded. 
  Weakly mere words convey
  The ivory white of snowflakes,
  Decking the hills that day;
  And the softening yellow tone
  That fell from the sun god’s throne.

  Far beyond wooded ridges
  Lit with a twilight ray,
  Sentinel like in the cloudland
  A nameless peak held sway;
  Keeping a silent guard
  O’er valleys by cloud wreaths barred.

  ’Twas crowned with flaming colours
  Of sunset’s fleeting hour;
  Giving its best expression
  To nature’s lavish dower
  E’re the ebbing tide of day
  Should fade from the world away.

  Then light melted softly to shadow
  And the blue of the sky turned grey,
  While a veil of deepening twilight
  Warned us to haste away,
  For the winter nights are bleak
  In the wilds by that lonely peak.

  [*]Beside the Ocstall

  I mused one day beside the Ocstall River
  Where trailing mists went drifting softly by;
  And waterfalls in thunderous voices calling,
  Their vaporous breath raised to a burdened sky.

  What mystic spell? what strange compelling passion
  Did hold the sons of Britain toiling there? 
  What charm was there in that great lonely region
  Enticing them from distant lands, more fair?

  Fantastic cloud wreaths draped a sea of mountains: 
  Forest and muskeg in the vales held sway;
  To win a fortune from those wild surroundings
  Men came, then could not from them break away.