On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc!
The Arne and Aveyron at thy base
Rove ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form!
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines
How silently! Around thee and above,
Deep in the air and dark, substantial, black—
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it
As with a wedge! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity!