Quietly, not to intrude, we peer, and pass through solitude, Glancing into glen and glade and the gorge the river made ...
The red bird sits on the bough and sings. He has a valley for his wings.
The pool is rippling, pure and clear; It is the property of deer.
The mountain's steep and haughty dome is the screaming eagle's home.
We praise the scenery with our eyes, remoteness of the lands and skies,
And, seeing these are not our own, we leave them undisturbed, alone,
Because we want to keep them so, closer to them as we go.