Rain in High Mountains
Last night the south wind herded a mass
Of wooly clouds over 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 where we had made our camp.
All through 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 .. .
