Through his brain has flashed like lightning,
So the golden light of evening
Glows upon the Alpine Giants.
(Do they dream of throes of labour
Which their mother-earth of old felt,
When they from her womb were bursting?)
From the horse got off our rider,
To a pine-tree stump he bound it,
Gazed in wonder at the landscape,
Spoke no word, but shouting tossed up