No human foot-print here before my own! And it is strange to come so far--alone-- So far into this frozen forest world Of moonlight and of shadow and deep snow, And things I do not know, That strike the civil vestments from my soul-- As if all law-born years were backward hurled Toward some dim and other pole-- Some brute primordial reign Whose voice was terror and whose life was pain. On--up the trail I go; Beneath my feet cold streams of moonlight glow, And in the silver-sifted dark strange, naked fancies grow, While the vast pines in vista, round by round, Move with an unearthly sound, And every tree with its white hair is crowned. On--up--I go, And as thru ancient Gothic arches seen I glimpse the valley far below That glistens with a fine fantastic sheen. On--up--I pass, Nor reck the night-wrought spells about me thrown, Heedless--sucked dry of thought or will Save to peer curious into this magician's glass, And see the forest dreams thru forest moonlight blown. On--up I plunge--until Bending, discern before me, with a thrill The signs where some wild beast has gone. Who knows but that within the silence here The cedar shadows gloom about a deer, That stands with body lithe and slim Struck to a statue by surprise? Who knows but that, upon some snowy limb A lynx, lean-bellied, pricks his tufted ear And watches me with evil, amber eyes? * * * * * Surely beyond the stars my man-world lies-- For close to me unhallowed mountains rise And fill my heart with fear! SONG IN WINTER Burning stars in a frosty sky, Thread-bare winds from the hollow west, "Give us a garment of beauty!" they cry, "For the waters of truth our throats are dry, And phantoms of chaos uncover the bones of our breast, Leaving us little rest." Bitter stars in a frozen sky, Tattered winds from the lonely west, Haggard beggars of hours that die-- (Begging the gift of a golden lie!) Is it with you as with us, no rest, no rest-- Is it with you no rest? The lacy chequer of aerial boughs That winter weaves with delicate wizardry. * * * * * Far away--who knows how far?-- Against the flaming calm of winter twilight, I hear the voice of speed--muffled and hoarse, Sounding across the hills. * * * * * Locomotive, locomotive, Over the hills at night, Running on your far-away groove With the husky pant of things that move And cannot turn to left or right, Of things that toil and things that pass In the murk of smoke and the stench of gas, Serf of the monstrous city, What pity--oh what pity For the dearth of your delight, Locomotive, locomotive, Over the hills at night! CLOUDS