 | Under the dawn |  |
7.
But, O ye solemn mountains, loved of him
Who most of all has stood with accents pure
Among our recent bards whose songs endure,
Who now sits 'mid the winged seraphim
With harp not weary and with eyes not dim,
And lips no earthly sickness can obscure,
Sweet mountains, be not wroth with me,—be sure
With love of ye my looks do ofttimes swim.
Who most of all has stood with accents pure
Among our recent bards whose songs endure,
Who now sits 'mid the winged seraphim
With harp not weary and with eyes not dim,
And lips no earthly sickness can obscure,
Sweet mountains, be not wroth with me,—be sure
With love of ye my looks do ofttimes swim.
But in that I was born in lowly lands,
And in a lowly region sought my bride,
These speak to me as no man understands,—
And, with unearthly mystic power supplied,
I seem to tread the desolate reach of sands,
And mark the low waste washing of the tide.
And in a lowly region sought my bride,
These speak to me as no man understands,—
And, with unearthly mystic power supplied,
I seem to tread the desolate reach of sands,
And mark the low waste washing of the tide.
| Under the dawn | |