A silver tide,
The waters glide,
And round the feet of mountains slide,
O’er whose high steep
The moonbeams peep,
And on through winding valleys keep.
‘Mid craggy walls,
Where alway calls
The voice of many waterfalls,
A castle stands,
Whence robber bands
Once ravaged all the neighbour lands.
Their fierce alarms,
Their clang of arms,
Rang o’er the peasants’ wasted farms;
And city streets
Heard their hoof beats,
Beheld the keeping of their leets.
Their riot fills
No more the hills,
And stirs a myriad mortal ills.
Their day is done,
Their course long run,
And memory fain their names would shun.
Along these slopes
With nature copes
The peasant, scattering seed in hopes.
The fig and vine
Their boughs entwine;
The valleys sing with corn and wine.
In summer days
A golden haze
Hides mount and river in its maze;
In summer eves
The moonlight weaves
A shimmering splendour of the leaves,
Or silver lights,
On autumn nights,
It scatters where no foe affrights;
While softly there
The call of prayer
Floats forth upon the peaceful air.
(Oscar Fay Adams)
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Based on Topics: Night Poems, Light Poems, Prayers Poems, Summer Poems, Running Poems, Wine Poems, Autumn PoemsBased on Keywords: copes, leets