BUTTE
by Berton Braley
She's ugly, you say, old Butte is,
And grimy, black and drear,
Why, partner, I never could see it,
And I've lived here many a year.
There's nothing pretty about her,
But somehow she's strong and free.
And big and rugged and--well, comrade--
She looks pretty good to me.
She's beautiful, too, in her fashion,
In her wonderful, strange old way
With her chimneys and throbbing engines,
Her hillsides marred and gray.
She's the goddess of wealth and power--
It's a thing my words won't reach,
It takes a man to express it
Who's born with a gift of speech.
But some clear autumn morning
When the air is like a sip
From a spring of sparkling water
That touches a pilgrim's lip,
Go out and look around you
At the mountains against the sky:
Those quiet immutable mountains
That carry their heads so high.
And then as the day grows brighter,
And the sky is a limpid blue,
The come in their grandeur closer
And sort of reach down to you,
And you feel, with a thrill of wonder
That has no strain of pride,
That you are one of the mountains--
That heart of the great divide.
Then at sunset how they fill you
With a sense of perfect awe,
As the colors bathe and light them
In faith with God's good law
Purple and gold and crimson,
Painted by Nature's hand,
I can't begin to express it,
But I think I can understand.
And the city itself at night
When seen from a distant place,
With its many lights a glistening
Like flames on a snowbank's face.
They sweep in a grand crescendo,
In glittering rows and lines,
Till they flicker into the starlight
That shimmers above the mines
Ugly and bleak? Well, maybe,
But my eyes have learned to find
The beauty of truth, not substance
The beauty that lies behind.
Her faults and her sins are many
To injure her fair repute,
But her heart and her soul are cleanly,
And she's beautiful, dear old Butte.
