When I went down the butte to drink at dawn,
Isaw a frozen lily by the spring,
A ragged stream-line rank of whistling swan,
And the swift flash of a willet's wing.
And now comes a hint of winter in the air:
Among the pensive valleys drifts a haze
Of dusty blue, and the quaking-asp lies bare
To the chill breath of hoary days.
Farewell, my mountian-ash and goldenrod,
For summer swoons in autumn's arms, and dies,
As the languid rivers drowse and the asters nod
Beneath the gray wind's lullabies.
Farwell, my fleet-foot antelope and doe;
Farewell, my wild companions of the hills -
Soon in your winter-slumber you will go
To a far land of singing rills.
Soon by the fire I'll sit with quiet dreams;
In the sinuous smoke, silver against the blue,
That floats above the dusky vales of streams,
My eyes will see the ghosts of you