Higher there, higher, far from the ways,
from the farms and the valleys, beyond the trees,
beyond the hills and the grasses haze,
far from the herd-trampled tapestries,
you discover a sombre pool in the deep
that a few bare snow-covered mountains form.
The lake, in lights, and nights, sublime sleep,
is never disturbed in its silent storm.
In that mournful waste, to the unsure ear,
come faint drawn-out sounds, more dead than the bell,
of some far-off cow, the echoes unclear,
as it grazes the slope, of a distant dell.
On those hills where the wind effaces all signs,
on those glaciers, fired by the suns pure light,
on those rocks, where dizziness threatens the mind,
in that lakes vermilion presage of night,
under my feet, and above my...