Awful, for nought of human warms

The agony of their song sublime,

Which like the breath of ice is given

Ascending in vapour from all forms,

Where gods in clear alternate chime

Reveal their mystery-thoughts to Heaven.

Nor in those regions of windless cold

Is fiery the Sun, tho’ fierce in light;

But frozen-pale the numbÈd Moon

Wanders along the ridges that fold

Enormous Peaks, what time the Night

Rivals with all her stars the Noon.

For there, not dimly as here, the Stars,

But globÈd and azure and crimson tinct,

Climb up the windless wastes of snow,

Gold-footed, or thro’ the long-drawn bars

Of mountain mist, with eyes unblink’d

And scorn, gaze down on the World below;

Or high on the topmost peak and end

Of ranges stand with sudden blaze,

Like Angels born in spontaneous birth;

Or wrap themselves in flame and descend

Between black foreheads of rock in haze,

Slowly, like grievÈd gods to earth.

And there for ever the patient Wind

Rakes up the crystals of dry snow,

And mourns for ever her work undone;

And there for ever, like Titans blind,

Their countenance lifting to Heaven’s glow,

The sightless Mountains yearn for the Sun.

He heard, he saw. Not to the air

Dared breathe a breath; but with his sight

Wreak’d on Immortals mortal wrong,

And dared to see them as they were—

The black Peaks blacken’d in their light,

The white Stars flashing with their song.

So fled. But when revealing Morn

Show’d him, descended, giant-grown,

Men ant-like, petty, mean and weak,

He rush’d, returning. Then in scorn

Th’ Immortals smote him to a Stone

That aches for ever on the Peak.

1888.