Or soft did the Navajo Shell-Woman speak
As she passed with a hymn for the great white peak?
———
They touch me light with their finger tips
And lay little snatches of song on my lips,
And swift I am gone where the hill-streams flow,
Where the pit-lark soars and the gentians blow.
The tapers of blossoms flame under the tree
And the pilgrim road unfolds for me,
Lifting away where the hill-folk keep
The gardens and cloisters and shrines of the Steep.
———
In charmed ways my feet are set:
By what fair host is the palmer met
And borne away to the great white stills?
Is it only the wind that comes down from the hills?