The mists hung blue and still on the stream

At the marge of dawn;

The rapids laughed till we saw their teeth Like a snarling wolf’s fangs glisten and gleam; Sweetly the pine trees underneath

The shadows slept in the moonlight wan; Sweetly beneath the steps of the spring

The great, grim forest was blossoming;

And we fought, that springs for other men Might blossom again.

Faint, thirst-maddened we prayed and fought By night and by day;

Eyes glared at us with serpent hate-

Yet sometimes a hush fell, and then we heard naught Save the Wind’s shrill harping far away, The piping of birds, and the softened calls Of the merry, distant water-falls;

Then of other scenes we thought—

Of valleys beloved in sunny France, Purple vineyards of song and dance,

Hopes and visions roseate;

Of many a holy festal morn,

And many a dream at vesper bell—

But anon the shuddering air was torn

By noises such as the fiends of hell

Might make in holding high holiday!

Once, so bitter the death-storm hailed,

We shrank and quailed.

117