The sheltering mountain’s unsmirched brow across.
Alas! for straining eyes that through long days
Of strong-breathed west wind saw the pale smoke-drift
Its threat’ning pennons in the distance lift,
So setting discord in sweet notes of praise.
Yet hath the wounded mountain in each thought
Won dearer love for wrong, unwilling, wrought.
ROC AMADOUR.
La douce Mère du Créatour,