The Caucasus

Below me the silver-capped Caucasus lies...
A stream at my feet rushes, foaming and roaring.
I watch a lone eagle, o’er the peaks calmly soaring
Drift near as he motionless circles the skies.
Here rivers are born that tear mountain asunder
And landslides begin with a crash as of thunder.

Here float solemn storm-clouds; and through them cascade
Swift torrents of water; they plunge o'er the edges
Of great, naked cliffs and spill down to the ledges
That patches of moss and dry brushwood invade.
Beneath spread green groves, lush with herbs and sweet-scented
Where birds dwell in peace and where deer browse, contented.

Lower still in the hills, nestle men; flocks of sheep
The pasturelands roam; to the gay, flowery meadow
Where courses Arafva, her banks clothed in shadow,
A shepherd descends. In a narrow and deep
Ravine a poor horseman lurks, tense and unsleeping,
And wild, laugh-crazed Terek goes tumbling and leaping.

He lashes about like a beast in a cage
With food out of reach, full of hunger and craving,
And licks at the boulders, and, howling and raving,
Strikes out at the shore in a frenzy and rage.
Alas! He is thwarted: the mountains surround him;
Mute, threatening giants, they press darkly round him.