To the Alps

Eternal Alps, in your sublime abode The soul goes forth untrammelled, and, apart From little self, expands and learns of God. There, it forgets awhile the busy mart Where strength, heart, life, are coined with cunning art To common currency; forgets the strife For gold, place, power, and fame; the bitter smart Of disappointment, pain, and sorrow rife, Where poor humanity walks in the paths of life.

Ye are unsullied by the serpent’s trail Of sin and death, with all their weary woes; And ye do minister within the veil Of an eternity that never knows The changes of decay. Time overthrows Man’s proudest glory, but his hand has striven In vain to mar your beauty; as ye rose, When form and light to the young earth were given, Ye stand, with your white brows, by the closed gates of heaven.