  Up the good slope of Going-To-The-Sun, I saw the Pheasant-Of-The-Sunrise fly. Jewels in his feathers, mixed with dew. Dew and jewels made his jeweled eye. He paused to make a sonnet, which he sang, Though nowhere else are pheasants sonneteers. He emphasized with swooping and with skipping, With winkings and intoxicated leers. And how the bushes twinkled as he caroled: “Each morning is another birthday, friend. And I have lived so many happy birthdays! There are gifts with all the suns that here ascend! Each bush, you see, has an unextinguished candle And angel-food, and icing, and candy flowers, And this long vine that climbs from earth to heaven Gives me thoughts, and most erratic powers. I eat its scarlet berries and its frosting. If I choose, it is my present every day. Then I can fly straight up to heaven’s doorstep Following the green line all the way. “And then I tumble like a limber leaf To my nest here, and another year is done Or another thousand years, what does it matter On the mountain peak called ‘Going-To-The-Sun’?” |
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