As they stood at the first over-ocean and sod,
And the cloud and the mountain are one; all unheard
Is the murmur of traffic, the sigh of unrest,
And the King of the land is a golden-crowned bird
With a robe of plain brown and an ashy-gray vest.
Where the shadows are deepest a musical sound
Cleaves their darkness, the song of the golden-crowned King.
Never day is so dark but the sweet notes are heard,
Never forest so dense but the melodies ring.
Sing on, little King of the twilight land, sing,