Beneath is a wide plain of billowy mist,
  As a lake, paving in the morning sky,
  With azure waves which burst in silver light,
  Some Indian vale. Behold it, rolling on
  Under the curdling winds, and islanding
  The peak whereon we stand, midway, around,
  Encinctured by the dark and blooming forests,
  Dim twilight-lawns, and stream-illumined caves,
  And wind-enchanted shapes of wandering mist;
  And far on high the keen sky-cleaving mountains
  From icy spires of sunlike radiance fling
  The dawn, as lifted Ocean's dazzling spray,
  From some Atlantic islet scattered up,
  Spangles the wind with lamp-like waterdrops.
  The vale is girdled with their walls, a howl
  Of cataracts from their thaw-cloven ravines
  Satiates the listening wind, continuous, vast,
  Awful as silence. Hark! the rushing snow!
  The sun-awakened avalanche! whose mass,
  Thrice sifted by the storm, had gathered there
  Flake after flake, in heaven-defying minds
  As thought by thought is piled, till some great truth
  Is loosened, and the nations echo round,
  Shaken to their roots, as do the mountains now.