MOONRISE ON THE WASATCH.[1]
The stars seemed far, yet darkness was not deep;
Like baby-eyes, the rays yet strove with sleep;
The giant hills stood in the distance proud—
On each white brow a dusky fold of cloud;
Some coldly gray, some of an amber hue,
Some with dark purple fading into blue;
And one that blushed with a faint crimson jet—
A sunset memory, tinged with cloud-regret.
Close to my feet the soft leaf shadows stirred;
I listened vainly, for they moved unheard—
Trembled unconsciously; the languid air
Crept to the rose's lip, and perished there.
It was an hour of such repose as steals
Into the heart when it most deeply feels;
When feeling covers every shred of speech
With one emotion language cannot reach.
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- ↑ The "Wasatch" is a rugged range of mountains forming the eastern boundary of Great Salt Lake Valley.
