How sharp the silver spear-heads charge

When Alp meets heaven in snow!

On our other side is the straight-up rock;

And a path is kept 'twixt the gorge and it

By boulder-stones where lichens mock

The marks on a moth, and small ferns fit

Their teeth to the polished block.

Oh the sense of the yellow mountain-flowers,

And thorny halls, each three in one,

The chestnuts throw on our path in showers!