Whispered despair in the still isolation. What were his thoughts when the vault of his prison Rang with glad cries in the glare of the torches? Breaking the silence, dispelling the shadows That darkened his life and threatened his reason, What were his thoughts at the moment of freedom? When round him a tempest of passion was raging, An unloosened storm of passionate feeling, When men incoherent and hoarse from the conflict Fought for the honour of breaking his fetters, Leaving him breathless with hearty embraces, Weak and unmanned in the sudden revulsion, Carried away by the flood of emotion, With something unknown that stifled expression, That silenced his voice and heaved in his bosom. 

 Strong is the spell of the dream-haunted mountains, Ruddy with gold in the glory of sunrise, Purple and silver and blue in the daytime, Tinged by the amethyst splendours of sunset, Gloomy, majestic and dark in the twilight, Mystic by moonlight, ethereal, airy, Changeful and fickle in hues as the opal, Under the mutable lights and the shadows, Ever alluring with subtle attraction. 

 Far, far away are the waters of Leman Whence I have fled at the call of the mountains. Here in the valley where rushes a torrent, Constant and cold, be it summer or winter, A village lies hid and hither the climbers, Strangely alike in their eager impatience, Wearing the look of enwrapped expectation, Pause ere they start on their perilous journey. Hemming me round, the implacable mountains Shut out the world and confine me in durance, Bending my soul to the yoke of their bondage, Dwarfing my self and my little emotions, Waking desire to escape limitations And barriers imposed by narrow horizons. Rugged, majestic, they tower above me, As lonely and pensive I gaze in the torrent, Wondering now at the summons insistent, No longer in dreams and rovings of fancy, But weighted with impulse, defying resistance, Rousing unrest like a spirit of evil. So, as I linger awhile in the village, Completely I know each day brings me nearer To what lies beyond, in the regions of silence. 

 Now it is over. The lights of the village, The children at play, the clink from the smithy, The gurgle and rush of the hurrying torrent, The rattle of wheels, the tinkle of cowbells, The inn's open window whence converse in fragments Floats out with the odours of beer and tobacco, All welcome me back with familiar voices. Here time moves onward with rhythmic precision: Breakfast and dinner, and bed for the darkness, With Sunday to part one week from another: Spring time and winter, the snow and the sunshine, And sooner or later a cross in the churchyard. Time lacks proportion away in the mountains. What is a day or an 

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