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In the Yellowstone
Little pin-prick geysers, spitting and sputtering;
Little foaming geysers, that spatter and cough;
Bubbling geysers, that gurgle out of the calyx of morning glory pools;
Laughing geysers, that dance in the sun, and spread their
robes like lace over the rocks;
Raging geysers, that rush out of hell with a great noise,
and blurt out vast dragon-gulps of steam, and, finishing,
sink back wearily into darkness;
Glad geysers, nymphs of the sun, that rise, slim and nude,
out of the hot dark earth, and stand poised in beauty a
moment, veiling their brows and breasts in mist;
Winged geysers, spirits of fire, that rise tall and straight like
a sequoia, and plume the sky with foam:
O wild choral fountains, forever singing and seething, forever
boiling in deep places and leaping forth for bright
moments into the air,
How do you like it up here? Why must you go back to the
spirits of darkness? What do you tell them down there
about your little glorious life in the sun?
– Harriet Munroe
