Sure in his song the mountains’ soul would wake.
Hearken! breaks through the silence soft a sound
Faint as the thought of half-forgotten dream.
Not speech so sad is that of mountain stream
That from all loftiest heights doth reckless bound,
Scattering its broken life in shining drift
Of constant dew that mocketh at the sun.
Nor breathes the wind in such low, measured tone
When doth it lightly leafy branches lift—
This wakes and dies in mournful monotone: