And touch'd the far bright buttes of snow,
Then climb'd their shoulders over soon;
And there she seem'd to sit at last,
To hang, to hover there, to grow,
Grow vaster than vast peaks of snow.
Grow whiter than the snow's own breast,
Grow softer than September's noon,
Until the snow-peaks seem'd at best
But one wide, shining, shatter'd moon.
She sat the battlements of time;