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. 
     
    
   
   
    
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