NOVEMBER 1
HOW clear, how keen, how marvellously bright The effluence from yon distant mountain’s head, Which, strewn with snow smooth as the sky 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 10 Dissolve that beauty, destined to endure, White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure, Through all vicissitudes, till genial Spring Has filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers. 1815.