THE STREETS OF THE MOUNTAINS 



open swales of dribbling springs; swarm 

 over old moraines ; circle the peaty swamps 

 and part and meet about clean still lakes ; 

 scale the stony gullies ; tormented, bowed, 

 persisting to the door of the storm cham- 

 bers, tall priests to pray for rain. The 

 spring winds lift clouds of pollen dust, finer 

 than frankincense, and trail it out over high 

 altars, staining the snow. No doubt they 

 understand this work better than we ; in 

 fact they know no other. " Come," say 

 the churches of the valleys, after a season 

 of dry years, " let us pray for rain." They 

 would do better to plant more trees. 



It is a pity we have let the gift of lyric 

 improvisation die out. Sitting islanded on 

 some gray peak above the encompassing 

 wood, the soul is lifted up to sing the Iliad 

 of the pines. They have no voice but the 

 wind, and no sound of them rises up to the 

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