  On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,” A comet stopped to drink from a cool spring And like a spirit-harp began to sing To us, then hurried on to reach the sun. We called him “Homer’s soul,” and “Milton’s wing.” The harp-sound stayed, though he went up and on. It turned to thunder, when he had quite gone— And yet was like a soft voice of the sea, And every whispering root and every blade of grass And every tree In the whole world, and brought thoughts of old songs That blind men sang ten thousand years ago, And all the springtime hearts of every nation know. |
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