Solitude

The stag that lifted up his kingly head Upon the silent mountains, and from far Beneath him heard the confident harsh cry Of men invading his old solitudes, Then bounding over the rough slopes has climbed By dancing brooks remoter ranges, thick With forests moaning in the cloudy winds Of desolate November, nor has stayed Till on the utmost craggy ledge, among Wet boughs, with antlers dripping from the mist And with sweat--darkened, quivering coat he snuffs Wide--nostrilled the wild air, where motionless He stands at last; what shudder as of joy Deeply to breathe that native loneliness Possesses him! From reddened oaks around Lost leaves are torn innumerably and whirled, Fast as from hearts of men their fearful hopes, Into the drizzling gulf; he hears beyond From cliffs that dimly tower in abrupt Strange precipices, the world--ancient roar Of headlong torrents: now the vapour rolls Blank over all, now rending it a gust Reveals by golden glimpses the pale stream Poured in a trembling pillar, at whose foot The snowy seethe shoots forward and recoils For one tumultuous moment, then again Arches into one pure unfretted wave And sends a voice in splendour down the gorge.