Classic Poem

YOSEMITE VALLEY

I T is creation's morning—
—Freshly the rivers run;
The cliffs, white brows adorning,
—Sing to the shining sun.

The forest, plumed and crested,
—Scales the steep granite wall.
The ranged peaks, glacier-breasted,
—March to the festival.

The mountains dance together,
—Lifting their domed heads high.
The cataract's foamy feather
—Flaunts in the streaming sky.

Somewhere a babe is borning,
—Somewhere a maid is won.
It is creation's morning—
—Now is the world begun.