Softly Returning
I HAVE cast down my name into the Grand Canyon of the Colorado:
It has been flung from the worn miles,
It has been lost in the tangible and violet echoes,
Wrecked on the rock banks of the river of far sky.
It has been flung from the worn miles,
It has been lost in the tangible and violet echoes,
Wrecked on the rock banks of the river of far sky.
I have written my name in the music of the Virgin River:
It has been swallowed in the caverns of Zion,
It has been worked to a red roundness, a littleness,
It has crumbled in the red wind’s and the brown wind’s drying.
It has been swallowed in the caverns of Zion,
It has been worked to a red roundness, a littleness,
It has crumbled in the red wind’s and the brown wind’s drying.
I have spelled my name in the shadowless leaves of the mountain mahogany:
The sun has burnt it to the yellow of grass,
It has been crushed by the feet of the deer of the Middle Fork,
It has turned white under the high snow of the Idaho passes.
The sun has burnt it to the yellow of grass,
It has been crushed by the feet of the deer of the Middle Fork,
It has turned white under the high snow of the Idaho passes.
Now I shall whisper my name softly in the close of the Queen’s River Valley:
The swamp maples will guard it with leaves burning,
It will be held in the yellow traces of the November witch-hazel,
I shall hear my name as my father’s name, softly and homely returning.
The swamp maples will guard it with leaves burning,
It will be held in the yellow traces of the November witch-hazel,
I shall hear my name as my father’s name, softly and homely returning.