CHILD of the clouds! remote from every taint Of sordid industry thy lot is cast; Thine are the honours of the lofty waste Not seldom, when with heat the valleys faint, Thy handmaid Frost with spangled tissue quaint Thy cradle decks; -- to chant thy birth, thou hast No meaner Poet than the whistling Blast, And Desolation is thy Patron-saint! She guards thee, ruthless Power! who would not spare Those mighty forests, once the bison's screen, Where stalked the huge deer to his shaggy lair Through paths and alleys roofed with darkest green; Thousands of years before the silent air Was pierced by whizzing shaft of hunter keen! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MOTHER AND POET; TURIN, AFTER THE NEWS FROM GAETA, 1861 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING A VAGABOND SONG by BLISS CARMAN PROMETHEUS by JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE GLOIRE DE DIJON by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE AMONG THE REDWOODS by EDWARD ROWLAND SILL SENEX TO MATT. PRIOR by JAMES KENNETH STEPHEN A SONG ABOUT SINGING by ANNE REEVE ALDRICH |