In The St. Gotthardt Pass

The storm which shook the silence of the hills And sleeping pinnacles of ancient snow Went muttering off in one last thunder throe Mixed with a moan of multitudinous rills; Yea, even as one who has wept much, but stills The flowing tears of some convulsive woe When a fair light of hope begins to glow Athwart the gloom of long remembered ills: So does the face of this scarred mountain height Relax its stony frown, while slow uprolled Invidious mists are changed to veiling gold. Wild peaks still fluctuate between dark and bright, But when the sun laughs at them, as of old, They kiss high heaven in all embracing light.