THESE wintry mountains with their heads of snow,
Whence, like the locks of age, long wreaths descend,
White-streaming from each stern majestic brow,
Through heath and fern, where hues of autumn blend;
All day the torpid trance of cold they show,
But sunset gleams—they wake—a glorious end,
Crowning long hours of gloom: in ruddy glow
When dazzling streaks of sunlight storm-clouds rend
They wake—they live—they struggle for the ray
That gilds their purple depths, their ridges white;
Even so, when evening comes on life's short day,
The sleeping soul may wake to vision bright;
After long years in mental darkness past,