At the soot-shoed ridge where a foot falls south
Rise the brows of a hill,
Flows a fluid mouth,
Which foams as its lips kiss a stalwart crag,
Whose legs now still
And will ever drag
Up the slow glacis where a hillbrow breaks,
Whence the soft soil spills
And a tree bough rakes
At the cold dense clouds and the heavy haze,
Whose brisk bath fills
The barren white days
From the quaking cliffs to the balmy bays.