Classic Poem

Our dearest, our young sons, have gone to slay.
But we, denied with them to march and die,
Angry-mooded yet at being disused,
Racked by the fray —
The wound in Europe's side from shore to shore —
To-night have climbed up from the plains confused
To foothills that look forth on Lombardy,
To the mountain of the herdsmen, prow
Of Mergozzolo, flanked by torrents hoar,
Ship of granite and of porphyry
Which anchored between deep gulfs keeps its bow
Toward Ossola's mighty vale's debouching snow
Whence glaciers primordial southward pressed.
Stark ship of granite and of porphyry!
It clove the invading glaciers on its breast,
So that one branch Orta scooped, and one the lake
Maggiore. Darkness falls. We have come far
By goat-foot path, shrine, ridge far-seen,
Round steep flanks dyked with rills
Up from soft chestnut-woods to fell and scar;
Scaling the forest-dark ravine —
Where the mountain's ancient passion yields its tones
Dash'd broken, young and pure, against the stones —
To see the dawn from the cloud-bearing hills
Of shepherds, and with herdsmen to take rest.