In Zululand
Morning in Zululand. I was awake
Ere yet the sun the voiceless hill-tops kissed.
Far in the distance, like a fog-dimmed lake,
The bosom of a mountain, with the mist
Hanging above it; on its highest hold,
A ruin, grand in famished wilderness,
Like some romantic castle tower of old,
Blue, solitary, silent, tenantless.
Now decks the sun the Eastern sky with gold,
Now with a golden diadem has crowned
The stately turret; awe-rapt, I behold
His gilded rays the silver mist confound,
With longings undefined, yet past control,
In silent meditation of the soul.
Morning in Zululand. I was awake
Ere yet the sun the voiceless hill-tops kissed.
Far in the distance, like a fog-dimmed lake,
The bosom of a mountain, with the mist
Hanging above it; on its highest hold,
A ruin, grand in famished wilderness,
Like some romantic castle tower of old,
Blue, solitary, silent, tenantless.
Now decks the sun the Eastern sky with gold,
Now with a golden diadem has crowned
The stately turret; awe-rapt, I behold
His gilded rays the silver mist confound,
With longings undefined, yet past control,
In silent meditation of the soul.