Nor in those regions of windless cold 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, And mourns for ever her work undone; And there for ever, like Titans blind, Their countenance lifting to Heaven’s glow, The sightless Mountains yearn for the Sun.
There nightly the numbèd eagle quells (Full-feather’d to his feet of horn) His swooning eye, his eyrie won, And slumbers, frozen by frosty spells Fast to the pinnacle; but at Morn Unfetter’d leaps toward the Sun.
He heard, he saw. Not to the air Dared breathe a breath; but with his sight Wreak’d on Immortals mortal wrong, And dared to see them as they were— The black Peaks blacken’d in their light, The white Stars flashing with their song.
So fled. But when revealing Morn Show’d him, descended, giant-grown, Men ant-like, petty, mean and weak, He rush’d, returning. Then in scorn Th’ Immortals smote him to a Stone That aches for ever on the Peak.
High Muse, who first, where to my opening sight, New-born, the loftiest summits of the world, Silent, with brows of ice and robes unfurl’d Of motionless thunder, shone above the night, Didst touch my infant eyes and fill with light Of snow, and sleepless stars, and torrents hurl’d, And fragrant pines of morning mist-empearl’d, And music of great things and their delight: Revisit me; resume my soul; inspire With force and cold out of the north—not given To sickly dwellers in these southern spots, Where all day long the great Sun rolls his fire Intol’rable in the dusty march of heaven, And the heart shrivels and the spirit rots.
A valley of far-fallen rocks, Like bones of mouldering mountains, spread, And ended by the barren blocks Of mountains doom’d or dead: No rivage there with green recess Made music in that wilderness.