The Glen by Irving Sidney Dix — Read

Here Nature's nice adjusted tool / Hath cut a chasm; and each pool / Reflects a narrow, rocky room / Where sun-born flowers seldom bloom, / But where the ledging, level shelves / Betray the dance hall of the elves.

And overhead the tasseled trees / Frown from the wall, and with each breeze / Awake the solemn avenue, / But hide from sight the upward view, / When with a hundred harps they sing / To Boreas their mighty king.

Here Echo dwells in lonely mood, / And answers to the dying wood; / Unsuited to a varying rhyme / She hath no voice for tuneful Time / Content to speak as she hath heard / The lyric wind, the singing bird.

Here these same falls awoke the glen / Long, long before the march of men; / Long, long before yon broken soil / Brought forth the fruit of human toil / And here these falls will dance and play / When feeling man has passed away.

Sing little Falls; and echo Glen, / Till silent are the songs of men / And they that dwell upon the earth / Have disappeared as at thy birth / And senseless Rock -- if think ye can, / Think ye -- how short the life of man!