No hint upon the hill-top shows
The flush of climbing feet;
But where the heaven above it glows
Triumphal glances meet,
Anon to vanish in the plain,
And leave the hill its heaven again.
No sign celestial hath the soul
Its coming dreams to tell,
Unheralded the tidal roll
Returns-a rhythmic swell,
Anon with silence, as with sand,
To strew the surf-forsaken strand.