Poetry Archives

Upon the mountain’s distant head,
  With trackless snows for ever white,
Where all is still, and cold, and dead,
  Late shines the day’s departing light.

But far below those icy rocks,
  The vales, in summer bloom arrayed,
Woods full of birds, and fields of flocks,
  Are dim with mist and dark with shade.

’Tis thus, from warm and kindly hearts,
  And eyes where generous meanings burn,
Earliest the light of life departs,
  But lingers with the cold and stern.