Snows that have never wasted in a sky
Which hath no stain; below the storm may drift
Its darkness, and the thunder-gust roar by;
Aloft in thy eternal smile they lie,
Dazzling, but cold; thy farewell glance looks there;
And when below thy hues of beauty die,
Girt round them, as a rosy belt, they bear
Into the high, dark vault a brow that still is fair.
James G. Percival.