In the After-Days
The black pines stand high up the hills,
The white snow sifts their columns deep,
While through the canyon’s riven cleft
From there, beyond, the rose clouds sweep.
Serene above their paling shapes
One star hath wakened in the sky.
And here in the gray world below
Over the sage the wind blows by;
Rides through the cotton-woods’ ghost-ranks,
And hums aloft a sturdy tune
Among the river’s tawny bluffs,
Untenanted as is the moon.
Far ’neath the huge invading dusk
Comes Silence awful through the plain;
But yonder horseman’s heart is gay,
And he goes singing might and main.