ZYPS OF ZIRL

The Alps of the Tyrol are dark with pines,

Where, foaming under the mountain spines,

The Inn's long water sounds and shines.

Beyond, are peaks where the morning weaves

An icy rose; and the evening leaves

The golden ghosts of a thousand sheaves.

Deep vines and torrents and glimmering haze,

And sheep-bells tinkling on mountain ways,

And fluting shepherds make sweet the days.