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Robert Laurence Binyon - Solitude
Work rating: Low

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.
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