No hint upon the hilltop shows The flush of climbing feet; But where the heaven above it glows Triumphal glances meet, Anon to vanish in the plain And leave the hill its heaven again. No sign celestial hath the soul Its coming dreams to tell, Unheralded the tidal roll Returns -- a rhythmic swell, Anon with silence, as with sand, To strew the surf-forsaken strand. |