Mad aging sunsets poured in seafoams of cloud through unimaginable crags, with every rose tint of hope beyond, I felt just like it, brilliant and bleak beyond words.
Everywhere awful ice fields and snow straws; one blade of grass jiggling in the winds of infinity, anchored to a rock. To the east, it was gray; to the north, awful; to the west, raging mad, hard iron fools wrestling in the groomian gloom; to the south my father's mist.
Jack mountain, his thousand- foot rock hat overlooked a hundred football fields of snow. Cinnammon creek was an eyrie of Scottish fog. Shull lost itself in the Golden Horn of Bleak. My oil lamp burned in infinity. "Poor gentle flesh," I realized, "there is no answer."
And nothing could induce the gay golden horizons far northeast where there was no storm, to change place with Desolation. Suddenly a green and rose rainbow shafted right down into Salvation Ridge not three hundred yards away from my door, like a bolt, like a pillar: it came among steaming clouds and orange sun turmoiling.
What is a rainbow, lord?
for the lowly.