In the majestic mist—of a mountain’s dawn;
In the gray haze of fog, soon to move along.
Below smoky drifts, canopies, and the wind.
Below, the raven’s wings, and the perch he sits.
Bird’s eye view, gazing, gawking; blithely spying.
Yearnfully, yet, no eagerness for showing.
Mellowing caws; buoyant—wake the harvest moon,
Of streams and time, do not both cascade on by?
Frolicsome and flashing; a true sight to see,
To harken the lone wolf’s motley midday howl;
With these Great Smoky Mountains now cleared away—
The raven soars above; stately valleys low.
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