  Here let me dream a little, while the day Wears not one cloud upon his lustrous brow, And care and coward fears their faces bow, And shrink before his searching light away, And only what is pure and true dares stay: For the strong spirit of the mountains now Steals on me, as I lie and listen how Far, far below the torrent-waters play, And near beside me slides a sheet of foam Precipitous; and high above those cold Gaunt sentinels their silent watches hold, And warn the dull world from their rocky home: And I will ponder upon thoughts untold Even to the poets of the age of gold. |
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