Main Johnson
And a shrill-voiced marmot,
Invisible on some far peak, whistled lonesomely.
Invisible on some far peak, whistled
Lonesomely.
In the early stages of her climb, the woman was depressed.
Fatigued in body, crushed in spirit, her face expressionless.
At last, she gained access to open lofty spaces.
A wind,
Gentle, silent and caressing, Began to blow about her hair.
Her face brightened; fatigue fell from her side.
More tightly still she pressed the Box.
As she clambered up, the wind grew gusty.
The woman seemed intoxicated with its breath.
And then—the mountain peak,
Top-ledge of the world!
As she reached it, first her hair And then her face
Were bathed in crimson from the sun,
Sinking slowly through a valley,
In the red and purple west.
Scarce fifty feet above her,
White foamy clouds raced past.
On her forehead she could feel their dampness,
Like a mist.
The wind grew to a storm;
It wrenched away the golden pin that had confined her tie.
The silken ends flew out, straight from the collar,
Pulling and tugging in the gale.
This was her waited omen.
The god of Speed, the Wind-god,
Adored One of her son in life and death,
Was close at hand.
And with his coming, so it seemed to her,
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