Page:Collected poems vol 1 de la mare.djvu/150

 TILL, and blanched, and cold, and lone,
 * The icy hills far off from me

With frosty ulys overgrown
 * Stand in their sculptured secrecy.

No path of theirs the chamois fleet
 * Treads, with a nostril to the wind;

O'er their ice-marbled glaciers beat
 * No wings of eagles in my mind —

Yea, in my mind these mountains rise,
 * Their perils dyed with evening's rose;

And still my ghost sits at my eyes
 * And thirsts for their untroubled snows.