W. Wordsworth.
OBERMANN
I
In front the awful Alpine track
Crawls up its rocky stair;
The autumn storm-winds drive the rack
Close o'er it, in the air.
Behind are the abandoned baths5
Mute in their meadows lone;
The leaves are on the valley paths;
The mists are on the Rhone—
The white mists rolling like a sea.
I hear the torrents roar.10
—Yes, Obermann, all speaks of thee!
I feel thee near once more.
How often, where the slopes are green
On Jaman, hast thou sate
By some high chalet door, and seen15
The summer day grow late,
And darkness steal o'er the wet grass
With the pale crocus starred,
And reach that glimmering sheet of glass
Beneath the piny sward,20
Lake Leman's waters, far below:
And watched the rosy light
Fade from the distant peaks of snow:
And on the air of night
Heard accents of the eternal tongue25
Through the pine branches play:
Listened, and felt thyself grow young:
Listened, and wept——Away!