Robert Frost

The Mountain

This clean, green air, over sleeps of snow, Blue and deep and coralline; With ribbed ice fuming emerald Where walled stars glow; This summer, frozen to crisp pinnacles, Pillared in a colonnade, Piercing high Australia; These streaming miles Of time and silences; this sunlit cold: Here flowing meets infinity, And summits stand up deified, Bright and old.

Don't have an account?

You will be identified by the alias - name will be hidden