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 .. . Wasn’t it strange, when our eyes had seen The flock descend, had heard it glean? And at Hell-gate Pass was never a ewe Between the rim and the sky’s clear blue; Only a bell that was likely a brook On its singing way in a riffled crook; Only a wisp of a wooly tail Vanishing over Hell-gate trail.