Prone to the dust he bent his head,
And lay like one three-quarters dead.
Forth went the whisper like a breeze;
Left him amid the wondering trees,
Left him by no means at his ease.
Once more he weltered in despair,
With hands, through denser-matted hair,
More tightly clenched than then they were.
When, bathed in dawn of living red,
Majestic frowned the mountain head,