From the Cliffs at Puye

This is the dewy morning of the world; All the wide earth, the mountains, fold on fold, Lie azure on the pure horizon furled. Here, like a mellow rim of ancient gold Above the pines, scoured by the sun and rains, Far from the desert canyons and the trials That lead to watered valleys and the plains, The cliffs are set. Never a bird that sails These upper skies is more instinct with peace Than this forgotten bastion, where air Brings the dulled sense and spirit soft release From cluttered weariness, till all the bare, Unstained magnificence of being lies As clear and still as earth before my eyes.