“From that saber-tooth’s ghost-purring goes the whispered word of power In the sunset, in the moonlight, in the purple sunrise hour:-- That an Indian chief is born, in a teepee, to the west, That a school of rattlesnakes is rattling, on the mountain’s breast, That an opal has been grubbed from the ground by a mole, That a bumble-bee has found a new way to save his soul. In Egyptian granite Boston, the rumor has gone round That new ways to tame the whirlwind have been marvelously found. That a Balanced Rock has fallen, that a battle has been won In the soul of some young touch-me-not, some tigerish Emerson.” And then I contradicted him, in a manner firm and flat. “Boston people do not read their Emerson like that.” “So much the worse for Boston,” said the self-reliant cat. Then I saw the cat there towering, like a cat cut from a hill:-- A prophet-beast of Nature’s law, staring with stony will, Pacing on the icy top, then stretched in drowsy thought, Then, listening, on tiptoe, to the voice the snowwind brought, Tearing at the fire-killed pine trees, kittenish again, Then speaking like a lion, long made president of men:-- “There are such holy plains and streams, there are such sky-arched spaces, There are life-long trails for private lives, and endless whispering places. Range is so wide there is not room for lust and poison breath And flesh may walk in Eden, forgetting shame and death.” And then I contradicted him, in a manner firm and flat. “I have never heard, in Boston, of anything like that.” “_Boston is peculiar._ _Boston is mysterious._ _You do not know your Boston_,” said the wise, fastidious cat, And turned again to lick the skull of his prey, the mountain-rat! And at that, he broke off his wild dream of a perfect human race. And I walked down to the aspen grove where is neither time nor place, Nor measurement, nor space, except that grass has room And aspen leaves whisper on forever in their grace. All day they watch along the banks. All night the perfume goes From the Mariposa’s chalice to the marble mountain-rose, In the Boston of their beauty-sleep, when storm-flowers Are in bloom, In the mystery of their beauty-sleep, when storm-flowers Are in bloom. [Illustration: ROCKETS ON THE WAY TO SATURN] THE ROCKETS THAT REACHED SATURN On the Fourth of July sky rockets went up Over the church and the trees and the town, Stripes and stars, riding red cars. Each rocket wore a red-white-and-blue gown, And I did not see one rocket come down. Next day on the hill I found dead sticks, Scorched like blown-out candle-wicks. But where are the rockets? Up in the sky. As for the sticks, let them lie. Dead sticks are not the Fourth of July.