Who hath produced and will receive the soul.”
“I love snow, and all the forms
Of the radiant frost;
I love waves, and winds, and storms,
Every thing almost
Which is nature’s, and may be
Untainted by man’s misery.”
There, indulge in solemn vision and bright silver dream, while “every sight and sound from the vast earth and ambient air” sends to your heart its choicest impulses: gaze on those rocks and pinnacles of snow, where never foot of common mortal trod, which the departing rose-tints leave in colder grandeur, and enjoy those solemn feelings of natural piety with which the spirit of solitude imbues the soul.
“Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part
Of me and of my soul, as I of them?