James Ernest Nesmith (1856–1898)

ALONG the hills the breathless forests dream,

Unvisited, and in the yellow light

The grass grows golden, and the birches white

Print their pale shadows in the darken’d stream,

Each twig distinct imprest; no warblers seem

To stir the stagnant air, no wing takes flight;

Athwart the west, in sombre purple dight,

The silver, silent lightnings sharply gleam.

Anon a spreading gloom creeps up the sky,

The Tempest drapes the azure dome in black,

Rolls up the rain, the whirlwind, and the rack,

And thunders in the roaring torrent by;

And every jewelled spray, afar and nigh,

Sparkles and glitters in its dewy track.