THE big mountains sit still in the afternoon light         Shadows in their lap;
     The bees roll round in the wild-thyme with de-
          light.
 
     We sitting here among the cranberries¹
        So still in the gap
     Of rock, distilling² our memories
 
     Are sinners! Strange! The bee that blunders
        Against me goes off with a laugh.
     A squirrel cocks his head on the fence, and
          wonders
 
     What about sin?—For, it seems
        The mountains have
     No shadow of us on their snowy forehead of
          dreams
 
     As they ought to have. They rise above us
    &nb............