And ere the dawn the pelting hail
Adds fury to the roaring gale.
So wears the night—the morrow’s sun
Proclaims the winter tempest done.
And what a morn! A crystal dome
Each rounded hill about our home!
More radiant is the sight, I ween,
Than e’er before has mortal seen.
Betwixt their glassy walls on high
The mountain corridors we spy,