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.