They burned lime on the hill and dropped it down br here in an iron car br On a long cable; here the ships warped in br And took their loads from the engine, the water br is deep to the cliff. The car br Hangs half way over in the gape of the gorge, br Stationed like a north star above the peaks of br the redwoods, iron perch br For the little red hawks when they cease from br hovering br When they've struck prey; the spider's fling of a br cable rust-glued to the pulleys. br The laborers are gone, but what a good multitude br Is here in return: the rich-lichened rock, the br rose-tipped stone-crop, the constant br Ocean's voices, the cloud-lighted space. br The kilns are cold on the hill but here in the br rust of the broken boiler br Quick lizards lighten, and a rattle-snake flows br Down the cracked masonry, over the crumbled br fire-brick. In the rotting timbers br And roofless platforms all the free companies br Of windy grasses have root and make seed; wild br buckwheat blooms in the fat br Weather-slacked lime from the bursted barrels. br Two duckhawks darting in the sky of their cliff-hung br nest are the voice of the headland. br Wine-hearted solitude, our mother the wilderness, br Men's failures are often as beautiful as men's br triumphs, but your returnings br Are even more precious than your first presence.