And then the patient mountain-stairs past peril,Triumphant in the eyrie of a hamletThat hears the constant silvering of the springsAnd smiles in the mountain-Steep among its cherriesAbove the green air-crystal of the valley.We knew them, we had seen the lights of eveningMoon-mimic here; and heard through dewbells dimThe strings that men cicada-like set murmuring.Here, cried our hearts, tune might be found at length,And all our dust laved in this garden of waters,Our hurry halted by these giant rocks,Whose coldness is a kindness, and aboveThere should be purer beams from heaven;—no distance,Sea, landslide, chasm, nor crossway of our lifeDivided us that moment from the unknownPilgrimage singing in the stranger's mind.
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