Morning in Zululand. I was awake Ere yet the sun the voiceless hill-tops kissed. Far in the distance, like a fog-dimmed lake, The bosom of a mountain, with the mist Hanging above it; on its highest hold, A ruin, grand in famished wilderness, Like some romantic castle tower of old, Blue, solitary, silent, tenantless. Now decks the sun the Eastern sky with gold, Now with a golden diadem has crowned The stately turret; awe-rapt, I behold His gilded rays the silver mist confound, With longings undefined, yet past control, In silent meditation of the soul.