They pause to muse beside this heap of stones
More beautiful than all the granite piles
Reared with slow labor on their ample miles.
Sweet, solemn splendor of the silent wood,
More dear you are than all the haunts of men;
For never mortal in your presence stood
And listened to the whisper of the glen
But songs forgotten sang to him again.
Perhaps it is his mother’s voice he hears,
The faint reëcho of her cradle croon