LAND of the beacon-hills that flame up white,
And spread as from on high a word sublime,
How is it that upon the roll of time
Thy sons have rarely writ their names in light?
Land where the voices of loud waters throng,
Where avalanches sweep the mountain's side,
Here men have wived and fought, have worked and died,
But all in silence listened to thy song.

Is it the vastness of the temple frowning
On changing symbols of the artist's faith,
Is it the volume of the music drowning
The utterance of his frail and fleeting breath,
That shames all forms of worship, and of priase,
Save the still service of laborious days?