And the cat purred on, in his great dream, as one who seeks the noblest ends:-- “Higher than the Back Bay whales, that spout and leap, and bite their friends, Higher than those Moby-Dicks, the Boston Lover’s trail ascends. Higher than the Methodist, or Unitarian spire, Beyond the range of any fence of bowlder or barbed wire, Telling to each other what the Boston Boys have done, The lodge-pole pines go towering to the timber-line and sun. And their whisper stirs love’s fury in each pantherish girl-child, Till she dresses like a columbine, or a bleeding heart gone wild. Like a harebell, golden aster, bluebell, Indian arrow, Blue jay, squirrel, meadow lark, loco, mountain sparrow. Mayflower, sagebrush, dying swan, they court in disarray. The masquerade, in Love’s hot name, is like a forest-play. And she is held in worship who adores the noblest boys. So miner-lovers bring her new amazing pets and toys. Mewing, prowling hunters bring her grizzlies in chains. Ranchers bring red apples through the silver rains. In the mountain of my beauty-sleep, when storm-flowers Are in bloom, The Boston of my beauty-sleep, when storm-flowers Are in bloom. There are just such naked waterfalls, as are roaring there below. For the springs of Boston Common are from priceless summer snow. Serene the wind-cleared Boston peaks, and there white rabbits run Like funny giant snowflakes, hopping in the sun. The ptarmigan will leap and fly and clutter through the drift And the baby ptarmigans ‘peep, peep,’ when the weasel eyelids lift. And where the pools are still and deep, dwarf willows see themselves, And the Boston Mariposas bend, like mirror-kissing elves. White is the gypsum cliff, and white the snowbird’s warm, deep-feathered home, White are the cottonwood and birch, white is the fountain-foam. “In the waterfalls from the sunburnt cliffs, the bold nymphs leap and shriek The wrath of the water makes them fight, its kisses make them weak. With shoulders hot with sunburn, with bodies rose and white, And streaming curls like sunrise rays, or curls like flags of night, Flowing to their dancing feet, circling them in storm, And their adorers glory in each lean, Ionic form. Oh, the hearts of women, then set free. They live the life of old That chickadees and bobcats sing, the famous Age of Gold.... They sleep and star-gaze on the grass, their red-ore camp fires shine, Like heaps of unset rubies spilled on velvet superfine. And love of man and maid is when the granite weds the snow-white stream. The ranch house bursts with babies. In the wood-lot deep eyes gleam, Buffalo children, barking wolves, fuming cinnamon bears. Human mustangs kick the paint from the breakfast-table chairs.”