 | Going-to-the-sun |  |
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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.
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.
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
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.
It stretched like the string of a violin
Played by invisible tides and waves.
It sang of Springfield yet to be.
It sang of the dead hours in their graves.
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.
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Played by invisible tides and waves.
It sang of Springfield yet to be.
It sang of the dead hours in their graves.
And of the United States to be,
And of all the map stretched out below.
And my kite had pansy eyes in its wings,
And I saw the states in their bloom and glow
Yet a child's block-map, and nothing more,
Flat patterns on a playroom floor.
And of all the map stretched out below.
And my kite had pansy eyes in its wings,
And I saw the states in their bloom and glow
Yet a child's block-map, and nothing more,
Flat patterns on a playroom floor.
Texas the fort, by the river to the south,
Michigan a pheasant with a leaf in its mouth,
Illinois an ear of corn, in the shock,
Maine a moose-horn, gray as a rock.
California a whale, in gilded mail,
Montana, a ranch of alfalfa and clover,
Michigan a pheasant with a leaf in its mouth,
Illinois an ear of corn, in the shock,
Maine a moose-horn, gray as a rock.
California a whale, in gilded mail,
Montana, a ranch of alfalfa and clover,
Montana with its mountain called “Going-To-The Sun,”
An outdoor temple for the singer and the rover,
Wyoming a range for a summer lark,
With sparkling trails, and its Yellowstone Park,
Colorado an Indian tent for the world,
Where the smokes of care-free camps are curled,
Arizona a mission in the desert for all time,
Where the nerves find peace, and thoughts find rhyme,
New Mexico a clay pueblo full of dreams,
Eldorado in its valleys, ghosts by its streams.
Utah a throne for a grandeur unknown,
For haughty hearts, with ways of their own.
Nevada the cabin of Mark Twain in his youth,
Where he mined in the can̄ons, where he dug for the truth.
Washington a western soldier's tent,
Idaho a chair for a president,
North and South Dakota, one buffalo hide,
Oregon a lumber mill on a mountain side,
Nebraska, Oklahoma, cowboy pistols pointing west
Kansas a wheat field where I, once, was a guest,
Iowa a corn pone sizzling hot,
Minnesota a farmer's coffee-pot.
Arkansas a steamboat at Mark Twain's door,
Missouri Mark Twain's raft on the shore.
Louisiana a cavalier's boot, just the thing
When we wade toward the mouth of the delta in the spring.
Mississippi a cotton scales,
Alabama many cotton bales,
Georgia a peach-basket red,
Florida a wild turkey's head,
North Carolina a crane, flying through a cloud,
South Carolina a soldier, with head unbowed,
West Virginia, the raccoon, shrewd and slow,
Tennessee Bob Taylor's fiddle and bow,
Virginia Thomas Jefferson's mountain and shroud,
Kentucky the log cradle of the proud.
Maryland a plow, Delaware a pruning hook,
Indiana Riley's Hoosier book,
Wisconsin a caldron, cool it who can,
Ohio Johnny Appleseed's park for man.
Vermont a poet's house, with waterfall and fern,
Where Frost writes songs that the world will learn.
An outdoor temple for the singer and the rover,
Wyoming a range for a summer lark,
With sparkling trails, and its Yellowstone Park,
Colorado an Indian tent for the world,
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Arizona a mission in the desert for all time,
Where the nerves find peace, and thoughts find rhyme,
New Mexico a clay pueblo full of dreams,
Eldorado in its valleys, ghosts by its streams.
Utah a throne for a grandeur unknown,
For haughty hearts, with ways of their own.
Nevada the cabin of Mark Twain in his youth,
Where he mined in the can̄ons, where he dug for the truth.
Washington a western soldier's tent,
Idaho a chair for a president,
North and South Dakota, one buffalo hide,
Oregon a lumber mill on a mountain side,
Nebraska, Oklahoma, cowboy pistols pointing west
Kansas a wheat field where I, once, was a guest,
Iowa a corn pone sizzling hot,
Minnesota a farmer's coffee-pot.
Arkansas a steamboat at Mark Twain's door,
Missouri Mark Twain's raft on the shore.
Louisiana a cavalier's boot, just the thing
When we wade toward the mouth of the delta in the spring.
Mississippi a cotton scales,
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Georgia a peach-basket red,
Florida a wild turkey's head,
North Carolina a crane, flying through a cloud,
South Carolina a soldier, with head unbowed,
West Virginia, the raccoon, shrewd and slow,
Tennessee Bob Taylor's fiddle and bow,
Virginia Thomas Jefferson's mountain and shroud,
Kentucky the log cradle of the proud.
Maryland a plow, Delaware a pruning hook,
Indiana Riley's Hoosier book,
Wisconsin a caldron, cool it who can,
Ohio Johnny Appleseed's park for man.
Vermont a poet's house, with waterfall and fern,
Where Frost writes songs that the world will learn.
New Jersey the doorstep of the nation,
Pennsylvania the front room of the nation,
Where once Penn welcomed all creation
And let them sleep on the grassy floor
And let them eat the wild berries and explore.
Rhode Island, Roger Williams' holy place,
Connecticut, an arbor of innocence and grace
Filled with flowers, and souls like lace,
Especially one little girl six years young
Who tells me stories in the fairy tongue.
Pennsylvania the front room of the nation,
Where once Penn welcomed all creation
And let them sleep on the grassy floor
And let them eat the wild berries and explore.
Rhode Island, Roger Williams' holy place,
Connecticut, an arbor of innocence and grace
Filled with flowers, and souls like lace,
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Who tells me stories in the fairy tongue.
New Hampshire the mast of the Mayflower,
Massachusetts the prow of the Mayflower,
Most famous ark forevermore.
Massachusetts the prow of the Mayflower,
Most famous ark forevermore.
The whole map a temple, if we patiently read,
With the statue of Liberty in majesty to plead
For Arcady to come once more,
And with New York on guard,
New York a sentinel,
New York a lion by the door.
With the statue of Liberty in majesty to plead
For Arcady to come once more,
And with New York on guard,
New York a sentinel,
New York a lion by the door.
By my camp fire I grew older,
There were chipmunks on my shoulder,
While I saw the world,
With the eyes of my boat,
As one land,
With Asia and Alaska by the ice bound as one,
The Aurora Borealis was a cross bright as the sun.
I seemed to live through myriad days.
My eyes looked down like searching rays.
I took my flight over many races,
I saw, in my thought, all human faces.
And my spirit had its fill.
And the thread in my wrist wound in again
The cobweb shortened, strand on strand,
And my little ship came back to land
And was only a feather in my hand.
There were chipmunks on my shoulder,
While I saw the world,
With the eyes of my boat,
As one land,
With Asia and Alaska by the ice bound as one,
The Aurora Borealis was a cross bright as the sun.
I seemed to live through myriad days.
My eyes looked down like searching rays.
I took my flight over many races,
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And my spirit had its fill.
And the thread in my wrist wound in again
The cobweb shortened, strand on strand,
And my little ship came back to land
And was only a feather in my hand.
| Going-to-the-sun | |