Last night the south wind herded a mass Of woolly clouds through 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 wherein we had made our camp. All during 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 woolly tail Vanishing over Hell-Gate trail. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPITAPH ON THE LADY MARY VILLIERS [OR VILLERS] (1) by THOMAS CAREW THREE KINGS OF ORIENT by JOHN HENRY HOPKINS JR. THE NINETEENTH OF APRIL, 1861 by LUCY LARCOM ON THE MEDUSA OF LEONARDO DA VINCI IN THE FLORENTINE GALLERY by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY ON A VIOLA D'AMORE by MATHILDE BLIND ACHRONOS by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |