Grace Hazard Conkling

From “Out of Mexico”

WHEN I saw the hills before dawn,

They were of the texture of thin gauze—

The sky shone through.

Now they are molten hills.

Like metal on the lip of a crater they palpitate and change,

Radiant, volatile.

The iron ravines flare and glow;

Scarlet lava brims the arroyo channels;

Overflowing in rivulets

It glazes the flashing sand.

Caverns, purple-dark a moment since,

Are boiling cauldrons of light;

They seethe under a primrose vapor.

There are no shadows anywhere;

Only undulating ridges of flamboyant copper,

Boulders of brass,

Precipices dripping hot gold,

Incandescent peaks that quiver upward

And hiss at contact with the sky.

Can these be the hills I saw hanging like pale rose gauze

Against the door of the dawn?