The phantoms, the glory, vanish all,
With the dying voice of the waterfall.
“Slow passes the darkness of that trance,
And the youth now faintly sees
Huge shadows and gushes of light that dance
On a rugged ceiling of unhewn trees,
And walls where the skins of beasts are hung,
And rifles glitter on antlers strung.
“On a couch of shaggy skins he lies;
As he strives to raise his head,