All day through the cloven mountains
Up a miracle-aisle we passed,
And we saw the stream transfigured
In the forest-shrine at last.
Down where the glen sinks deepest
Into the mountain's breast,
We looked up and beheld it,
High on the round world's crest,
When a vision white and whiter
Sprang over the archéd steep,
It was spirit, it was not water,
Rose up from that fearful leap.
The pure spray bathed our faces,
And the tears of joy did well--
If in or out of the body
I saw it, I cannot tell.
But I saw a clear soul leaping,
Chanting its last brave breath,
Dashed into glory and lightness
On the sharp black rocks of death--
Lifting white hands of rapture,
Showering rainbow rays,
And making the Lord God gladder
With a great Amen of praise.
