On—up the trail I go;
Beneath my feet cold streams of moonlight glow,
And in the silver-sifted dark strange, naked fancies grow,
While the vast pines in vista, round by round,
Move with an unearthly sound,
And every tree with its white hair is crowned.
On—up—I go,
And as thru ancient Gothic arches seen
I glimpse the valley far below
That glistens with a fine fantastic sheen.