Like mighty thinkers, there they stand
Above the soft green pasture-land;
They yield no common yearly food,
To those lone heights ne'er climbs the wood,
"What do those giant idlers there?"
I asked; and streams the answer bare,
Which, foaming through the summer heat,
Rush down the rocks, and round the feet
Of those grey mountains coolness bring, —
The coolness of their glacier spring.
"Oh, brown would all these pastures lie,
If never peak had towered high
Above the zone where corn and oil
Can flourish and repay your toil.
Those grand calm heights, like sages, hold
Such treasures heaped from times of old,
Such stores of ice and snow to yield
Their cooling draught to thirsty field;
Those rugged shoulders bravely bear
New burdens for the coming year.
But mortals will not read aright,
Nor know that, from eachtbarren height,
Unquenched the living waters flow
Which verdure bring to fields below."
