It winds along the face of a cliff

This path which I long to explore,

And over it dashes a waterfall,

And the air is full of the roar

And the thunderous voice of waters which sweep

In a silver torrent over some steep.

It clears the path with a mighty bound

And tumbles below and away,

And the trees and the bushes which grow in the rocks

Are wet with its jewelled spray;

The air is misty and heavy with sound,

And small, wet wildflowers star the ground.

Oh! The dampness is very good to smell,

And the path is soft to tread,

And beyond the fall it winds up and on,

While little streamlets thread

Their own meandering way down the hill

Each singing its own little song, until

I forget that t is only a pictured path,

And I hear the water and wind,

And look through the mist, and strain my eyes

To see what there is behind;

For it must lead to a happy land,

This little path by a waterfall spanned.