WITH heart not yet half rested from Mont Blanc, O'er thee, small flower, my wearied eyes I bent, And rested on that humbler vision long: Is there less beauty in thy purple tent Outspread, perchance a boundless firmament, O'er viewless myriads which beneath thee throng, Than in that Mount whose sides, with ruin hung, Frown o'er black glen and gorges thunder-rent? Is there less mystery? Wisely if we ponder, Thine is the mightier! Life, dread Power, in thee Is strong as in cherubic wings that wander Searching the limits of Infinity, Life, life to be transmitted, not to expire Till yonder snowy vault shall melt in the last fire! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE ARCHITECT (1) by KAREN SWENSON THE WAY TO ARCADY by HENRY CUYLER BUNNER THE CHRONICLE; A BALLAD by ABRAHAM COWLEY MONTEREY [SEPTEMBER 23, 1846] by CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN ON THE SUN COMING OUT IN THE AFTERNOON by HENRY DAVID THOREAU EPISTLES ON THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION OF WOMEN: 3 by LUCY AIKEN |