Were altered as the upward deeps of ocean
Diluted with a seepage of the moon.
The butte-top, late a gossamer balloon
In mid-air tethered hovering, grew down
And rooted in a blear expanse of brown,
That, lifting slowly with the ebb of night,
Took on the harsh solidity of light—
And day was on the prairie like a flame.
Scarce had he munched the hoarded roots, when came
A vertigo of slumber. Snatchy dreams