Above the scarred cliff's iron brow...

Above the scarred cliff's iron brow . . . . . . . . There speeds the fruitful crooked plow; While on the soft west wind come odors Of plumy pine and of balsam bough.

Here at the base another sight— It ceaseth not by day nor night— Ormudz and Ahriman contending, Destroyer dark and White Soul of light!

Bared by life's ever beating brine, The rocky bases that define Of good and ill the place of meeting, Be bugle-call to this heart of mine!