THE PRAYER OF THE BARREN ROCK

Lord, round my brow the winds of heaven are hurled,
Under the burning sun I bend my head;
The cloud that passes, like a bird is sped
Forth to another world.

I know the Winter blasts that freeze and sting,
The long monotony of Summer rain;
My eyes upturned to heaven implore in vain
The miracle of Spring.

No forests crowd upon my barren crest,
No singing streams of water, running bright
Through beds of moss and drowsy flowers, invite
The traveller to rest.

But even as spectres in their tombs awake,
Haunted by dreams of paradise denied,
My dull heart stirs, and in my soul I hide
A thirst I may not slake.

My feet are buried in the mountain height,
My feet are chained; my hope soars to the sky.
Men know me not, like strangers they pass by
My prison bars of light.

And since I am denied the friendly flowers,
The fragrant beds of moss, the singing stream,
Lord, let the nesting eagles mate and scream
Above my mountain towers.

Yet by my loneliness would I express,
As in a symbol, that exalted mood
Which in impassioned, godlike solitude
Finds everlastingness.