Is fiery the Sun, tho’ fierce in light;

But frozen-pale the numbèd Moon

Wanders along the ridges that fold

Enormous Peaks, what time the Night

Rivals with all her stars the Noon.

For there, not dimly as here, the Stars,

But globèd and azure and crimson tinct,

Climb up the windless wastes of snow,

Gold-footed, or thro’ the long-drawn bars

Of mountain mist, with eyes unblink’d

And scorn, gaze down on the World below;

Or high on the topmost peak and end

Of ranges stand with sudden blaze,

Like Angels born in spontaneous birth;

Or wrap themselves in flame and descend

Between black foreheads of rock in haze,

Slowly, like grievèd gods to earth.

 

And there for ever the patient Wind

Rakes up the crystals of dry snow,

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