And with their smiles of winning, child-like grace,
They woo the rock, and murmur in his face:
“O Aged-One, why art thou never glad?
The lines that seam thy countenance are sad.
The world is ever changing; thou alone
Art still the same with thy dark face of stone.
“Free children of the mountains ever free,
We bring rich gifts of jewels unto thee;
Scent thee with perfumes of the mountain rose—
Heaven’s daughter fair, that on our margin grows.