From Glion on an August noon
  I scarcely see the ripples shine
Where sunbeam spirits lightly swoon
  On drifting shrouds of cyanine.

The Dent du Midi now uprears
  His proud tiara through the mist,
The sacred crown whose triple tiers
  Are walls of Titan amethyst.

A voiceless, dreamless paradise
  Of fleeting and fantastic form
More lovely than the fierce sunrise,
  More visionary than the storm.

Here would I dream away long years
  Till with the mountains I was one,
Knowing not loves or hates or fears,
  Standing immutably alone.