Page 89 - 1932 Hartridge
P. 89
Sierra Night
Ch e night drew a deep breath,
Jewelled with the stars
And silvered with frost . . .
The night drew a deep breath, and heard
The myriad whisperings of dead centuries
As they swirled down from high, windy places Through the gray shades of the deep valley . . . The night drew a deep breath and listened
To the ghosts of the dead centuries. Buried in granite crevices.
Buried in blue-'glass snow caverns. Buried beneath the gnarled bark
Of the whispering pines
And in their wavy, graying branches . . . The night drew a deep breath
And listened to the red friction
Of the shooting stars.
And heard the faint tinkle of stardust. Dropping from luminous planets
Onto frostTitten mountain peaks . . . The night drew a deep breath
And watched with a sigh
Gray dawn, slowly rising
In the East . . .
M. K.. ’32.
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