IV
Sharp crags of granite,
Pointing, threatening,
Thrust fiercely up at me;
And near the edge, their menace
Would whirl me down.
V
Climbing desperately toward the heights
I glance in terror behind me
To be deafened—to be shattered—
By a thunderbolt of beauty.
VI
The mountains hold communion;
They are priests, silent and austere,
They have come together
In a secret place
With unbowed heads.
VII
This hidden lake
Is a sapphire cup—
An offering clearer than wine,
Colder than tears.
The mountains hold it toward the sky
In silence.
October Morning
October is brown
In field and row—