Читать книгу The Trail of the Goldseekers: A Record of Travel in Prose and Verse - Garland Hamlin - Страница 12

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From hot low sands aflame with heat,

From crackling cedars dripping odorous gum,

I ride to set my burning feet

On heights whence Uncompagre's waters hum,

From rock to rock, and run

As white as wool.

My panting horse sniffs on the breeze

The water smell, too faint for me to know;

But I can see afar the trees,

Which tell of grasses where the asters blow,

And columbines and clover bending low

Are honey-full.

I catch the gleam of snow-fields, bright

As burnished shields of tempered steel,

And round each sovereign lonely height

I watch the storm-clouds vault and reel,

Heavy with hail and trailing

Veils of sleet.

"Hurrah, my faithful! soon you shall plunge

Your burning nostril to the bit in snow;

Soon you shall rest where foam-white waters lunge

From cliff to cliff, and you shall know

No more of hunger or the flame of sand

Or windless desert's heat!"