 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 | The candle in the cabin |  |
120
THE BUTTERFLY CITIZENS
Indian Pass is golden green,
Indian Pass is high;
Over it, the glaciers,
Under it, scraps of sky.
Indian Pass is high;
Over it, the glaciers,
Under it, scraps of sky.
We climbed over Indian Pass
And thought of Springfield Town,
Far away in Illinois,
While the wind roared down,
Springfield seemed a star afar, a far off jewel flame,
Our home-town was a wonder-point,
Or merely one more name.
And thought of Springfield Town,
Far away in Illinois,
While the wind roared down,
Springfield seemed a star afar, a far off jewel flame,
Our home-town was a wonder-point,
Or merely one more name.
The real town, the one town,
Was the sod beneath our feet,
With city streets complete:
With the Indian Paint, the bear grass,
The ferns that toss, the fireweed floss,
The hundred sorts of mountain moss;
And up and down, across, across,
Flew the mountain citizens,
The shining snow-line butterflies
With peacock-winged eyes.
Was the sod beneath our feet,
With city streets complete:
With the Indian Paint, the bear grass,
The ferns that toss, the fireweed floss,
The hundred sorts of mountain moss;
And up and down, across, across,
Flew the mountain citizens,
The shining snow-line butterflies
With peacock-winged eyes.
| The candle in the cabin | |