  The leaping waters thunder at my feet, Thunder, and rush upon white wings of foam Down from the fastness of their glacier home, Laving the limbs that lift this rocky seat: They part a moment, and again they meet Far down the gorge, from where my slow steps clomb The towering mountain: jubilant they roam, With eager voices, hurrying to greet Hearts grown aweary of the wasting strife Of low ambition,—brother trampling down The soul of brother for some tinsel crown;— They bear cool healing for our fevered life, And a sweet message of serene repose Fresh from the pure and everlasting snows. |
|
