November 1, 1815
How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright
The effluence from yon distant mountain’s head,
Which, strewn with snow as smooth as Heaven can shed,
Shines like another Sun—on mortal sight
Uprisen, as if to check approaching night,
And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread,
If so he might, yon mountain’s glittering head—
Terrestrial—but a surface, by the flight
Of sad mortality’s earth-sullying wing,
Unswept, unstained? Nor shall the aerial Powers
Dissolve that beauty—destined to endure
White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure,
Through all vicissitudes—till genial spring
Have filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers.
