Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809–1894)

SLOW toiling upward from the misty vale,

I leave the bright enamelled zones below;

No more for me their beauteous bloom shall glow,

Their lingering sweetness load the morning gale;

Few are the slender flowerets, scentless, pale,

That on their ice-clad stems all trembling blow

Along the margin of unmelting snow;

Yet with unsaddened voice thy verge I hail,

White realm of peace above the flowering-line;

Welcome thy frozen domes, thy rocky spires!

O’er thee undimmed the moon-girt planets shine,

On thy majestic altars fade the fires

That filled the air with smoke of vain desires,

And all the unclouded blue of heaven is thine!