Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone,
As if were here denied
The summer sun, the spring’s sweet dew,
That clothe with many a varied hue
The bleakest mountain-side.
The evening mists, with ceaseless change,
Now clothed the mountains’ lofty range,
Now left their foreheads bare,
And round the skirts their mantle furled,
Or on the sable waters curled,