A line of pointed footprints in the snow:

Some roving chamois, but an hour ago,

Had passed this way along his journey fleet,

And left a message from a friend unknown

To cheer my pilgrim-heart, no more alone.

Zermatt, 1872.

 III

MOVING BELLS

 I love the hour that comes, with dusky hair And dewy feet, along the Alpine dells, To lead the cattle forth. A thousand bells Go chiming after her across the fair And flowery uplands, while the rosy flare Of sunset on the snowy mountain dwells, And valleys darken, and the drowsy spells Of peace are woven through the purple air.

I love the hour that comes, with dusky hair

And dewy feet, along the Alpine dells,

To lead the cattle forth. A thousand bells

Go chiming after her across the fair

And flowery uplands, while the rosy flare

Of sunset on the snowy mountain dwells,

And valleys darken, and the drowsy spells

Of peace are woven through the purple air.

 Dear is the magic of this hour: she seems To walk before the dark by falling rills, And lend a sweeter song to hidden streams; She opens all the doors of night, and fills With moving bells the music of my dreams, That wander far among the sleeping hills.

Dear is the magic of this hour: she seems

To walk before the dark by falling rills,

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