Sonnet

High Muse, who first, where to my opening sight,

New-born, the loftiest summits of the world,

Silent, with brows of ice and robes unfurl’d

Of motionless thunder, shone above the night,

Didst touch my infant eyes and fill with light

Of snow, and sleepless stars, and torrents hurl’d,

And fragrant pines of morning mist-empearl’d,

And music of great things and their delight:

Revisit me; resume my soul; inspire

With force and cold out of the north—not given

To sickly dwellers in these southern spots,

Where all day long the great Sun rolls his fire

Intol’rable in the dusty march of heaven,

And the heart shrivels and the spirit rots.