Eternal Alps, in your sublime abode
The soul goes forth untrammelled, and, apart
From little self, expands and learns of God.
There, it forgets awhile the busy mart
Where strength, heart, life, are coined with cunning art
To common currency; forgets the strife
For gold, place, power, and fame; the bitter smart
Of disappointment, pain, and sorrow rife,
Where poor humanity walks in the paths of life.
Ye are unsullied by the serpent’s trail
Of sin and death, with all their weary woes;
And ye do minister within the veil
Of an eternity that never knows
The changes of decay. Time overthrows
Man’s proudest glory, but his hand has striven
In vain to mar your beauty; as ye rose,
When form and light to the young earth were given,
Ye stand, with your white brows, by the closed gates of heaven.