For countless centuries unknown,
Point, here, and there, and yon, to where
God and his angels dwell in air; —
And thistles rise and grow and bloom,
And cypresses, those trees of gloom,
Frown everywhere along the pale
Which is the entrance to the vale; —
But nothing—nothing moves within:
There is no tumult and no din: —
Shut out by hills that scarcely show