Where mountains fall upon their knees,
and bow, do trees, so low;
meander rivers, shyly by,
where birds no longer fly;
nor whistle in the treetops, sing in dawn's own light;
all of nature cowers,
beneath this evil might.
Perhaps to nature's beauty, my ears, are now tone deaf;
and horror in my eyes resides,
to all else, am I blind.
And oh, my thoughts, so vivid once,
flee now from my mind:
left of spirit, there is, but none,
my being now is numb.
Shall I wither, within my own despair,
Or rise ye mountains, shout;
stand ye trees, tall be proud;
oh, rivers rage in flood?
Whistle birds in treetops, sing upon the dawn;
Remain shall I forlorn?
Or shall I stand in natures house,
and spill for her my blood.