 | From the Hills of Dream |  |
44
The Stone of Sorrow.
Wearily dawns the morning o'er the world.
The sea, muttering, moans his primeval pain.
The brooding mists upon the brooding hills are lain;
The banners of the wild wandering mountain-winds are furled:
Wearily, wearily, dawns the morning o'er the world.
The sea, muttering, moans his primeval pain.
The brooding mists upon the brooding hills are lain;
The banners of the wild wandering mountain-winds are furled:
Wearily, wearily, dawns the morning o'er the world.
O wearily dawns this morning of the world.
Beautiful spirit, whither hast thou fled?
They tell me thou art here no more, that thou art dead:
That shall not be till God afar the sun and stars hath whirled,
And saith, So sets the last wild dawn of any world.
Beautiful spirit, whither hast thou fled?
They tell me thou art here no more, that thou art dead:
That shall not be till God afar the sun and stars hath whirled,
And saith, So sets the last wild dawn of any world.
| From the Hills of Dream | |