Little Bough

At the soot-shoed ridge where a foot falls south

Rise the brows of a hill

Flows a fluid mouth

Which foams as its lips kiss a stalwart crag

Whose legs now still

And will ever drag

Up the slow glacis where a hillbrow breaks

Whence the soft soil spills

And a tree bough rakes

At the cold dense clouds and the heavy haze

Whose brisk bath fills

The barren white days

From the quaking cliffs to the balmy bays