The cedars sweep by in their mystical hurry;
Gone into the wind are the languor and worry—
Gone into the west with the phantom moon.
Ho! there is the lord of the hills and the valleys;
It is he that leads in the midsummer sallies
High into the steeps where the gray chaparral is;
It is he that leads to the low lagoon.
Where the wild mustard splashes the slope with yellow,
He has turned at bay—ah, the powerful fellow!
See the toss of his head—hear the breath and the bellow;