Green as a clouded chrysoprase
And lonely as a dream of God.—
reflecting the snowy pinnacles above. The splintered peaks stand about it. Until July it is polished ice, and out of one side opens a solemn ante-chapel blocked with snow. The lake itself is swept clear and empty. The moon climbs the peaks and looks down, and the constellations swing above it. A terrible, lonely place, peopled only by shadows. It was awful to think of the pomps of sunrise, noon, and sunset passing overhead, and leaving it to the night and dream which are its only true companions. It should never be day there—always black, immovable Night, crouching among the snows and staring down with all her starlight eyes into that polished icy mirror.
For days we went. We left their mirth
For where the springs of light arise,
And dawns lean over to the earth,
And stars are split to lower skies
White, white the wastes around us lay,
The wild peaks gathered round to see
Our fires affront the awful day,