The Lonely Land

I

Here in the high wilderness, in this mountain land, no man Has come, with love for men, in the height, in the blue, But only the Eagle flies.

II

There is no sound of rivers swirling, No creek in which the fish are swimming, Here, where the winds sing, shrill and cold, In the heart of the hills that rise, In the joy of the morning’s new caress.

III

Silence, silence overwhelms, And the soul feeds on its solitude— Team with the feathered things around, And whisper skyward the joy, Of this land, so bright, so proud.

• AJM Smith