PART III
WESTWARD VISTA
The half-sunk sun
Burns through the dusty-crimson sky;
Streamers of gold and green soar
In radiating splendor, like the spokes
Of God's unmeasurable chariot-wheels
Half-hid and vanishing.
Around me is coolness, ripeness and repose;
The smell of gathered grain and fruits,
And the musky breath of melons fills the air.
The very dust is fruity, and the click
Of locusts' wings is like the close
Of gates upon great stores of wheat.
The gathered barley bleaches in shock,
The corn breathes on me from the west,
And the sky-line widens on and on
Until I see the waves of yellow-green
Break on the hills that face the snow and lilac peaks
Of Colorado's mountains.