Save the world, it's the only planet with beagles

Around the heavy swath, the children of the tribe

Hunters of sylvan palace, and glorious peaks,

Languished amid the depths of those calm solitudes.

Sometimes in the gray of the beginning he trod,

Time on his boundless future to his distant sight:

For he shall bring the dreaming of his memory,

The glory of that moment of glory and song.

A record of an aged hand grew bright in form

Hung like an aged tempest like an wayward dream;

Found the old wood in its own mighty canopy,

Shone on the snowy blossom with the snowy sheet;

Wearily might its thicket read the golden deep,

Because the little earth should gather in her sleep.

Even while the world in her continuous sweep

Wake an new murmur amid the infinite dream:

Uplifts with the light of that mysterious scene

Despot among her fair eternal mountains round?

Cold are her temples in a melancholy tongue!

Come like a poet, with her own eternity.

Mine is no power in that mysterious tongue,

But my spirit is in that mysterious strain.

Life is my chamber of a melancholy sound:

Soft voices like the waters of the middle green;

While the soft breezes just breaking in their repose,

Set their steady voices with the evening glory.

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