  Down, down the wild canyons we go in a flurry; The cedars sweep by in their mystical hurry; Gone into the wind are the languor and worry— Gone into the west with the phantom moon. Ho! there is the lord of the hills and the valleys; It is he that leads in the midsummer sallies High into the steeps where the gray chaparral is; It is he that leads to the low lagoon. Where the wild mustard splashes the slope with yellow, He has turned at bay—ah, the powerful fellow! See the toss of his head—hear the breath and the bellow; How he tears the ground with his angry hoofs! Now he breaks a wild path through the deep, plumy rushes, (A loud bird high on a tamarack hushes) Right on through a glory of crimson he crushes, On into the gloom under leafy roofs. The cattle—we shout down the poppy-hung hollow. Lo! out of the cliff we have startled a swallow, And startled the echoes on rocky fells. Ho! what was it passed? Were they leaves—were they sparrows That whispered away like a hurtle of arrows? The rose-odor thickens—the deep gorge narrows; Now the herd takes down through the scented dells. Speed, speed, leave the brooks to their potter and prattle; Sweep on with the thunder and surge of the cattle, The hurry, the voices, the keen joy of battle— The hills and the wind and the open light. Now on into camp by the sycamores yonder; Let thoughts in the high heart grow pensive and fonder; Then stars and the dream of a summer night.
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