Untitled

22.

The mountains in their overwhelming might Moved me to sadness when I saw them first, And afterwards they moved me to delight; Struck harmonies from silent chords which burst Out into song, a song by memory nursed; Forever unrenewed by touch or sight Sleeps the keen magic of each day or night, In pleasure and in wonder then immersed. All Switzerland behind us on the ascent, All Italy before us we plunged down St. Gothard, garden of forget-me-not: Yet why should such a flower choose such a spot? Could we forget that way which once we went Though not one flower had bloomed to weave its crown?