Sonnet X Poem by Philip Henry Savage

MOOSILAUKE IN DECEMBER

THE wet, brown leaves of winter on the ground
Unkempt they looked or evil, one by one
Called back to vision by a careless sun;
He should by this have reached his southern bound
Leaving December earth all straitly gowned
In decent white; but here we trod upon
Her bosom black, uncovered and undone,
And shrank from many a wet and naked wound.
The Parthian sun his arrows to the head
Drew, and within the field a little rill
Beneath an edge of morning ice awoke;
A line down through the mat-brown grass it led
White, threaded with the blue the heavens spill,
And tinkled coldly past a frozen oak.

Light veils of snow the west wind bore along,
White shadows, drifted through the upper air
Above the valley; they were very fair
And passed in music like a summer song.
I stood upon a mountain; here the strong
Wild-Ammonoosuc rolled in forests bare,
A tumult in his hollow pathway; there
Whispered through Wildwood with an icy tongue.
The sunlight shone on Kinsman through the cloud
And turned the little falling snow to gold
Which never reached the earth, but it went back
Into the chambers of the air; the loud,
White shepherd west wind drove into the fold
And forests waving showed his vanished track.

Standing above the Tunnel gorge, the brook
Unseen, unheard below I knew laid out
And trimmed its tenements for April's trout,
Rested and ran from hidden nook to nook.
The wintry forests in the wind had shook
December from their branches; round about,
The sun had aided in the season's rout
To Moosilauke; and when to him I look,
White snow and winter build in me a sense,
Structured on beauty awful and serene,
Of majesty, a pressing sense of fear.
I never saw a vision more intense
In awfulness than that tremendous scene —
Black Moosilauke, uprising dark and near!

So very near! Far down, the Tunnel run
Crept out beneath the mountain's heavy base;
Buttress and bastion mounting I could trace
In upright courses to the supreme One,
High, distant dome where-over bits of sun
Ran with the rolling clouds a windy race.
But all beneath was blackness, and my face
A breath as of the mountain fell upon.
A whisper from the mountain came across,
So dark, so strong! a breath in blackness drawn,
Long drawn and deep, so near we were and high!
And then it seemed a simple child might toss
Against the opposèd wall a pebble-stone,
Deep in the Tunnel gorge to roll and lie.