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Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,
Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amainTorrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God! God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!
Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breastThou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me—Rise, O ever rise! Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth! Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,
Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834]
In the night
“O Master, that movest the wind with a finger,
In the morning
“O Master, that knowest the meaning of raindrops,
In the evening
In the night
Stephen Crane (1870-1900)
NEXT TO EVEREST HIGHEST OF MOUNTAINS
O WHITE priest of Eternity, around
For in this world too much is overclear,
Wherefore continue, still enshrined, thy rites,
Yea, wrap thy awful gulfs and acolytes
But since primeval Power upreared thy heights
And though thy loftier brother shall be king,
Cale Young Rice (1872–
Ye have been fresh and green;
Ye have been filled with flowers;
Where maids have spent their hours.
Ye have beheld how they
With wicker arks did come
The richer cowslips home.
Ye've heard them sweetly sing,
And seen them in a round,
With honeysuckles crowned.
But now we see none here
Whose silvery feet did tread,
Adorned this smoother mead.
Like unthrifts, having spent
Your stock, and needy grown,
Robert Herrick (1591-1674)
I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers
From the seas and the streams;
In their noonday dreams.
The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Lightning my pilot sits; .
It struggles and howls at fits.
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The Spirit he loves remains; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead,