THE COMET OF GOING-TO-THE-SUN
On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,”
A comet stopped to drink from a cool spring
And like a spirit-harp began to sing
To us, then hurried on to reach the sun.
We called him “Homer’s soul,” and “Milton’s wing.”
The harp-sound stayed, though he went up and on.
It turned to thunder, when he had quite gone—
And yet was like a soft voice of the sea,
And every whispering root and every blade of grass
And every tree
In the whole world, and brought thoughts of old songs
That blind men sang ten thousand years ago,
And all the springtime hearts of every nation know.
THE BOAT WITH THE KITE STRING AND THE CELESTIAL EYES
On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,”
I sat alone; while Stephen explored higher,
I dragged in sticks and logs and kept our fire.
On soft-winged sails of meditation
My boat of spiral shells and flowers,
And fluffy clouds and twinkling hours,
My thought-boat went with the sun all day
Over the glaciers, far away.
I sat alone, but the chipmunks knew
My boat was high, and plain to view.
I flew my ship like a kite. The thread
Was a cobweb silk, fine and thin,
That came from out the palm of my hand.
There I saw the ship begin.
From the gypsy’s life line thence it came
A feather of mist that flew to the dawn,
And I felt the spool in my wrist unwind,
And I saw the feather on heaven’s lawn,
Now a glimmering ship like a lark awake.
And the kite string sang, but did not break.