Last night the south wind herded a mass Of woolly clouds through Hell-Gate Pass -- In the van of the scrambling flock, a ewe Ebon as sin, and as ugly too -- Down over the boulders and canyon snow To graze on the flat by the lake below; The meadow wherein we had made our camp. All during the dark we could hear them stamp; All through the chill, star-smothered hours Could hear a cropping of Alpine flowers, And there was a tinkle we couldn't say whether Was brook, or bell on an old bell-wether. When morning broke, the meadow lay As flowery bright as yesterday; No lily trampled, no lupin brushed, Not a columbine or an aster crushed. Wasn't it strange, when our eyes had seen The flock descend? Had heard it glean? And at Hell-Gate Pass was never a ewe Between the rim and the sky's clear blue; Only a bell that was likely a brook On its singing way in a riffled crook; Only a wisp of a woolly tail Vanishing over Hell-Gate trail. |