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 | An idyl of work |  |
“Then the eye rests upon Black Mountain's top
Of sombre velvet, highest of these hills,
That gathers the rich purple and deep gold
Of fine late light into his vesture's folds,
Yet, in his rounded symmetry, appears
Less grand than Whiteface, his next-neighbor peak,
Looking, sharp-cut and gray, out of the north,
With outreach of bare shoulder; in his side
A gash deep-hollowed, where the sun at noon
Pours clearest oil and wine.
“Some sonneteer,
Travelling this way, has hung a little web
Of misty melody about his brow.
Travelling this way, he must have wandered on
Over steep roads of Sandwich, when he wrote
Of Whiteface as a monarch whom the clouds
Gather toward, wingéd daughters of the sky,—
For of this vale Chocorua is king.
Of sombre velvet, highest of these hills,
That gathers the rich purple and deep gold
Of fine late light into his vesture's folds,
Yet, in his rounded symmetry, appears
Less grand than Whiteface, his next-neighbor peak,
Looking, sharp-cut and gray, out of the north,
With outreach of bare shoulder; in his side
A gash deep-hollowed, where the sun at noon
Pours clearest oil and wine.
“Some sonneteer,
Travelling this way, has hung a little web
Of misty melody about his brow.
Travelling this way, he must have wandered on
Over steep roads of Sandwich, when he wrote
Of Whiteface as a monarch whom the clouds
Gather toward, wingéd daughters of the sky,—
For of this vale Chocorua is king.
| An idyl of work | |