At noon unnumbered rills begin to spring

Beneath the burning sun, and all the walls

Of all the ocean-blue crevasses ring

With liquid lyrics of their waterfalls;

As if a poet's heart had felt the glow

Of sovereign love, and song began to flow.

Zermatt, 1872.

 II

THE SNOW-FIELD

 White Death had laid his pall upon the plain, And crowned the mountain-peaks like monarchs dead; The vault of heaven was glaring overhead With pitiless light that filled my eyes with pain; And while I vainly longed, and looked in vain For sign or trace of life, my spirit said, “Shall any living thing that dares to tread This royal lair of Death escape again?”

White Death had laid his pall upon the plain,

And crowned the mountain-peaks like monarchs dead;

The vault of heaven was glaring overhead

With pitiless light that filled my eyes with pain;

And while I vainly longed, and looked in vain

For sign or trace of life, my spirit said,

“Shall any living thing that dares to tread

This royal lair of Death escape again?”

 But even then I saw before my feet A line of pointed footprints in the snow: Some roving chamois, but an hour ago, Had passed this way along his journey fleet, And left a message from a friend unknown To cheer my pilgrim-heart, no more alone.

But even then I saw before my feet

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