Said the high hill, in the morning: "Look on me--
"Behold, sweet earth, sweet sister sky, behold
"The red flames on my peaks, and how my pines
"Are cressets of pure gold; my quarried scars
"Of black crevase and shadow-fill'd canon,
"Are trac'd in silver mist. How on my breast
"Hang the soft purple fringes of the night;
"Close to my shoulder droops the weary moon,
"Dove-pale, into the crimson surf the sun
"Drives up before his prow; and blackly stands
"On my slim, loftiest peak, an eagle, with
"His angry eyes set sunward, while his cry
"Falls fiercely back from all my ruddy heights;
"And his bald eaglets, in their bare, broad nest,
"Shrill pipe their angry echoes: "'Sun, arise,
"'And show me that pale dove, beside her nest,
"'Which I shall strike with piercing beak and tear
"'With iron talons for my hungry young.'"
And that mild dove, secure for yet a space,
Half waken'd, turns her ring'd and glossy neck
To watch dawn's ruby pulsing on her breast,
And see the first bright golden motes slip down
The gnarl'd trunks about her leaf-deep nest,
Nor sees nor fears the eagle on the peak.

* * * * *

"Aye, lassie, sing--I'll smoke my pipe the while,
"And let it be a simple, bonnie song,