 | The Cup of Quietness |  |
Not Alpine!—Himalayan is the range
Of thy stupendous voice. Through every clime
Of passion mounting, where the mists of time
Girdle unconquered heights, above all change
Of seasons, thou dost fling to Heaven thy strange
Prodigious harmonies, that grandly chime
In pauses of the storm of sound, sublime
As thunder of descending avalange.
Of thy stupendous voice. Through every clime
Of passion mounting, where the mists of time
Girdle unconquered heights, above all change
Of seasons, thou dost fling to Heaven thy strange
Prodigious harmonies, that grandly chime
In pauses of the storm of sound, sublime
As thunder of descending avalange.
Thine are the giant leaps, o'er monstrous chasms,
From ledge to ledge; depths of abysmal gloom;
Rending of stubborn rocks by lightning-spasms.
Thine too the gently-sloping vales, where loom
Soft forms, the rainbow weaves her frail phantasms,
Butterflies toy, and fairy flowers bloom.
From ledge to ledge; depths of abysmal gloom;
Rending of stubborn rocks by lightning-spasms.
Thine too the gently-sloping vales, where loom
Soft forms, the rainbow weaves her frail phantasms,
Butterflies toy, and fairy flowers bloom.
| The Cup of Quietness | |