So lovingly the clouds caress his head, —
The mountain monarch he, severe and hard.
With white face set as flint horizon-ward;
They weaving softest fleece of gold and red,
And gossamer of airiest silver-thread.
To wrap this form, wind-beaten, thunder-scarred.
They linger tenderly, and fain would stay.
Since he, earth-rooted, may not float away.
He upward looks, but moves not; wears their hues;
Draws them unto himself; their beauty shares;
And sometimes his own semblance seems to lose.
His grandeur and their grace so interfuse;
And when his angels leave him unawares,
A sullen rock, his brow to heaven he bares.
