Any unicorn is worth his oats, And so we fed him bacon, and we made An extra cup of tea, which he drank. Then he curled up coltwise, and in slumber sank. Dragons sprang up, next day, where he had stayed. They were in Fujiyama silks arrayed, Or spoke of Everest to Stephen. Then began Discussing the strange peak in Darien That poets climb to see the Pacific well. How Stephen climbed it later, I will let him tell. Following the Unicorn-No-Storm-Can-Tame Alone, in tropic woods, is a great game. JOHNNY APPLESEED STILL FURTHER WEST On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,” I saw old Johnny Appleseed once more. He ate an apple, threw away the core. Then turned and smiled and slackly watched it fall Into a crevice of the mountain wall. In an instant there was an apple tree, The roots split up the rocks beneath our feet, And apples rolled down the green mountainside And fairies popped from them, flying and free! [Illustration] And Fairies Came from them. [Illustration] THE APPLE-BARREL OF JOHNNY APPLESEED On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,” I saw gray Johnny Appleseed at prayer Just as the sunset made the old earth fair. Then darkness came; in an instant, like great smoke, The sun fell down as though its great hoops broke And dark rich apples, poured from the dim flame Where the sun set, came rolling toward the peak, A storm of fruit, a mighty cider-reek, The perfume of the orchards of the world, From apple-shadows: red and russet domes That turned to clouds of glory and strange homes Above the mountain tops for cloud-born souls:-- Reproofs for men who build the world like moles, Models for men, if they would build the world As Johnny Appleseed would have it done-- Praying, and reading the books of Swedenborg On the mountain top called “Going-To-The-Sun.” [Illustration] THE COMET OF GOING-TO-THE-SUN On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,” A comet stopped to drink from a cool spring And like a spirit-harp began to sing To us, then hurried on to reach the sun. We called him “Homer’s soul,” and “Milton’s wing.” The harp-sound stayed, though he went up and on. It turned to thunder, when he had quite gone-- And yet was like a soft voice of the sea, And every whispering root and every blade of grass And every tree In the whole world, and brought thoughts of old songs That blind men sang ten thousand years ago, And all the springtime hearts of every nation know. [Illustration] THE BOAT WITH THE KITE STRING AND THE CELESTIAL EYES On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,” I sat alone; while Stephen explored higher, I dragged in sticks and logs and kept our fire.