Quatrains - Poem by Herbert Bashford
LONG hours we toiled up through the solemn wood
Beneath moss-banners stretched from tree to tree;
At last upon a barren hill we stood
And, lo, above loomed Majesty!
WHAT wondrous sermons these seas preach to men!
What lofty pinnacles they seek to climb!
How old and bent they are, yet strong as when
They rocked the infant Time!
LIKE some huge bird that sinks to rest,
The sun goes down—a weary thing—
And o’er the water’s placid breast
It lays a scarlet, outstretched wing.
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