Above the rugged realm of fir and pine,
Aggressive pinnacles, supreme and high,
In snow eternal keenly pierce the sky,
Inviolately white save when the shine
Of morning hues them, or the sunset's wine
Doth drench their slopes in crimson. Pure they lie,
Beyond all earthly dreams of purity,
And hieroglyphed with Beauty's mystic sign.
O snows remote, untrod, that gleam secure
From all the desecrating years of Time,
That, vestal still, shall front Eternity,
Thou art to me as some Ideal sublime,
That from its eminence unwon and pure
Speaks with the voice of what my soul might be.