Classic Poem

Here on the dark rocks
Of the land's verge,
I hear the wind's shout,
The murmer of surge.

Like a rabble afar,
Its applauding cries,
Millions in number,
Confusedly rise.

So the myriad-voiced
Cold ancient one
Sends up his song
Of praise to the sun.

The winds above him
Stride and are free.
They pry in the rocks,
Where wallows the sea:

Till into dark clefts
They suddenly fall,
And he seizes them swiftly:
While, over all,

Smilingly white
Over deep-blue shade,
The far snow-peak
Nods a drowsy head.