Thou Sphinx that sittest at the Opal Gate
That lets the ocean in to Puget Sea,
Keeping thy silent watch o’er time and fate,
Thro’ clouds that veil thy grandeur mistily,
Or with the sun’s fierce halo on thy brow;
Furrowed by lava, rugged, stern and white,
Thou wert a marvel to me once, but now,
Majestic sphinx! I read thy secret right.
God, let me be a mountain when I die,
Stung by the hail, lashed by the terrible rains!
Let lava fires surge, turbulent and high,
And fierce with torment thro’ my bursting veins;
Let lightnings flame around my lonely brow,
And mighty storm-clouds race, and break, and roar
About me: let the melted lava plow
Raw furrows in my breast; torment me sore,
O God! Let me curse loneliness, yet see
My very forests felled beneath my eyes.
Give me all Time’s distill’d agony,—
Yet let me still stand, mute, beneath the skies;
Thro’ storms that beat and inward fires that burn,
Tortured, yet silent; suffering, yet pure,—
That torn and tempted hearts may lift and learn
The noble meaning of the word endure.
A draft of "The Snow Mountain," here titled "Mount Baker" (which was the title it was printed under for Overland Monthly for February of 1894) on onionskin paper, courtesy of the Ella Higginson Papers, Center for Pacific Northwest Studies, Heritage Resources, Western Washington University, Bellingham WA.
No comments:
Post a Comment