The Last West and Paolo's Virginia

To you who have lifted the veil of mists o'er-blown And gazed in the eyes of dawn when night had flown— Have felt in your hearts a thrill of sheer delight As you scanned the scene below from some alpine height— I extend this fleeting glimpse across a world Of forest and meadow land—at last unfurled— Through vistas of soaring peaks with frosted crest In the fiorded wonderland of this—last—west.
October Daybreak on Boundary Bay
A skyline bold and clear Of cold sharp corniced snow, Where, bulking huge, the mass of Baker's cone Shadows the world below.
'Tis bright with promise now! That flood and field Still shrouded in the mystery of night, Will shortly be revealed.
The wildfowl on the bay Call to the distant flight Of ducks, that swoop from out the realms of space, Seeking a place to light.
Sounds through the waking hours The beating of countless wings, Faint voices floating through the upper air In softest whisperings.
A blush of coming day Flooding the eastern sky, Fresh rosy Dawn climbing the rampart hills, Forces the night to fly:
Then from his lair the sun Leaps forth. The fading gleam Of silver moon and silent stars is quenched. Day reigns once more supreme.
The Last Arete
Alpinist— Excelsior, there's nought we may not dare! Why, now, confess defeat, when plain in sight Looms the stern peak—to which we've toiled and fought Up many a mountain gorge and soaring height? It were a shame if we should now go back And, leaving all we've won, retrace our track.
Undaunted by the circling mists we camped, Laid siege; while hail and snow went storming by, Assaulted through the brilliant mists; that wrapped A veil, impenetrable to the eye, Around the wastes of ice, the snowfields bare And craggy peaks that pierce the upper air.
We scorned to own defeat, when lost to sight, 'Mid cloud and snowstorm, was that summit cold; But started out the morn e're yet the sun The highest cornices had edged with gold. See now! the noonday glare reveals our fate Above a rampart white and sharp arete.