PART III

WESTWARD VISTA The half-sunk sun Burns through the dusty-crimson sky; Streamers of gold and green soar In radiating splendor, like the spokes Of God's unmeasurable chariot-wheels Half-hid and vanishing. Around me is coolness, ripeness and repose; The smell of gathered grain and fruits, And the musky breath of melons fills the air. The very dust is fruity, and the click Of locusts' wings is like the close Of gates upon great stores of wheat. The gathered barley bleaches in shock, The corn breathes on me from the west, And the sky-line widens on and on Until I see the waves of yellow-green Break on the hills that face the snow and lilac peaks Of Colorado's mountains.