Хоакин (Цинциннат Хайнер) Миллер (Joaquin (Cincinnatus Hiner) Miller)

Yosemite

Sound! Sound! Sound!
O colossal walls and crown'd
In one eternal thunder!
Sound! Sound! Sound!
O ye oceans overhead,
While we walk, subdued in wonder,
In the ferns and grasses, under
And beside the swift Merced!

Fret! Fret! Fret!
Streaming sounding banners, set
On the giant granite castles
In the clouds and in the snow!
But the foe he comes not yet,--
We are loyal, valiant vassals,
And we touch the trailing tassles
Of the banners far below.

Surge! Surge! Surge!
From the white Sierra's verge
To the very valley blossom.
Surge! Surge! Surge!
Yet the song bird builds a home,
And the mossy branches cross them,
And the tassled tree tops toss them
In the clouds of falling foam.

Sweep! Sweep! Sweep!
O ye heaven born and deep,
In one dread unbroken chorus!
We may wonder or we may weep,--
We may wait on God before us;
We may shout or lift a hand,--
We may bow down and deplore us,
But we may never understand.

Beat! Beat! Beat!
We advance, but would retreat
From this restless, broken breast
Of the earth in a convulsion.
We would rest, but dare not rest,
For the angel of expulsion
From this Paradise below
Waves us onward and . . . we go.

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