John White Chadwick (1840–1904)

BUILDING our beacon fire, we spread our feast

On the bare cliff high up against the sky;

Eastward a few lone clouds went sailing by,

As more and more the sunset glow increased,

And every sound of bird and leaf had ceased;

Far down below, we could the stream espy,

Seeming at rest all motionless to lie;

And life from every burden seemed released.

Range beyond range, we saw the wooded heights;

And far away, backed against paly gold,

Their rightful lords—unspeakable delights!—

Their purple splendor sturdily uphold,

While, climbing slow, the moon and eve’s first star

Led every thought to heights more cool and far.