How dreadful is this place! There lies the world,
Forever thinking, thinking, thinking.--Slow,
Above her fair green plains, like mist upcurled,
Rises a sadness born of long ago.
Smiling as if her bloom hid naught but scars,
How old she seems! Between her and the stars
Is only silence--silence thronged and thrilled
With the old questions, and prayers unfulfilled.
As I came up, I met the mountain brooks
Down plunging--O how glad, and O how strong!
Fearless beneath the black crags' frowning looks;
O happy, tireless life, that feels no wrong,
Nor want, nor waiting! I, above you, long
To rest me from this awe in such delights.
Man's mournful glory is that he must climb;
O the great pain of moments most sublime!
He should be God who sits on mountain heights,
Not to feel all this mystery make him cold!
God--or so like Him, that no time seems old.
