The Mountain and the Lake
I know a mountain thrilling to the
stars,
Peerless and pure, and pinnacled with snow;
Glimpsing the golden dawn o’er coral bars,
Flaunting the vanisht sunset’s garnet glow;
Proudly patrician, passionless, serene;
Soaring in silvered steeps where cloud-surfs
break;
Virgin and vestal Oh, a very Queen!
And at her feet there dreams a quiet lake.
My lake adores my mountain
well I know,
For I have watched it
from its dawn-dream start,
Stilling its mirror
to her splendid snow,
Framing her image in
its trembling heart;
Glassing her graciousness
of greening wood,
Kissing her throne,
melodiously mad,
Thrilling responsive
to her every mood,
Gloomed with her sadness,
gay when she is glad.
My lake has dreamed
and loved since time was born;
Will love and dream
till time shall cease to be;
Gazing to Her in worship
half forlorn,
Who looks towards the
stars and will not see
My peerless mountain,
splendid in her scorn. . . .
Alas! poor little lake!
Alas! poor me!