Green tracery of fern to rust...

Green tracery of fern to rust . . . . . . . . . . . The shouldering hills to level dust,— This is the law of rhythmic nature, The ebb and flow of its may and must.

I hear the wind-harp's wilding tones Sobbing a requiem o'er their bones; "The golden-globëd skies shall perish," The harper harps as he wails and moans.

Wild heart, within thy ruby vault Is flashed a purpose, free of fault From great High Priest's own breast-plate splendid,— E'en deathless life out of death's assault.