Of sunset: And he heard a moan,
Beneath, around, on every hand--
"Accursed! Yea, what hast thou done
To bring this curse upon thy land?"
And then an awful sense of wings:
And, lo! the answer--"'Twas his lust
That was his crime. Behold! E'en kings
Must reckon with Me. All are dust."
_Zyps of
Zirl_
The Alps of the Tyrol are dark with pines,
Where, foaming under the mountain spines,
The Inn's long water sounds and shines.
Beyond, are peaks where the morning weaves
An icy rose; and the evening leaves
The glittering gold of a thousand sheaves.
Deep vines and torrents and glimmering haze,
And sheep-bells tinkling on mountain ways,
And fluting shepherds make sweet the days.
The rolling mist, like a wandering fleece,
The great round moon in a mountain crease,
And a song of love make the nights all peace.
Beneath the blue Tyrolean skies
On the banks of the Inn, that foams and flies,
The storied city of Innsbruck lies.
With its mediaeval streets, that crook,
And its gabled houses, it has the look
Of a belfried town in a fairy-book.
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