Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/169

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Beneath these put-in pines and waxen lilies,They placed you in a crimson gash in the hillside,Here on a bluff above the Sleepy-eye,Where the Baptism River, mumbling among the canyons,Shoulders its flood through crooning waterfallsIn a mist of wafted foam fragile as petalsOf windflowers blowing across the green of April;Where ghosts of wistful leaves go floating upIn the rustling blaze of autumn, like silver smokesSlenderly twisting among the thin blue winds;Here in the great gray arms of Mont du Père,Where the shy arbutus, the mink, and the Johnny-jump-upHuddle and whisper of a long, long winter;Where stars, with soundless feet, come trooping upTo dance to the water-drums of white cascades—Where stars, like little children, go singing downThe sky to the flute of the wind in the willow-tree—Somebody—somebody's there . . . O pagan Joe . . .Can't you see Him as He moves among the mountains—Where dusk, dew-lidded, slips among the valleysSoft as a blue wolf walking in thick wet moss?Look! . . . my friend! . . . at the breast of Mont du Pere! . . .Sh-sh-sh-sh! . . . Don't you hear His talking waters . . .Soft in the gloom as broken butterfliesHovering above a somber pool . . . Sh-sh-sh-sh!Somebody's there . . . in the heart of Mont du Père . . .Somebody—somebody's there, sleeping . . . sleeping. . .
Poetry, A Magazine of VerseLew Sarett

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