High on the hill-slope sigh in dream,
With plumy heads in heaven;
They silver the sunbeam.
One broken body of a tree,
Stabbed through and slashed by lightning keen,
Unsouled, and grim to see,
Hangs o’er the hushed ravine.
A hundred masts, a hundred more,
Crowd close against the sunset-fires.
Their late adventure o’er,