The Mer de Glace.
191
The crystal typifies the spray
Not lost on Alpine breeze,
Nor thrown in garlands on the ice,
But left like tears to freeze.
They call all this the type of death,
O rather call it life!
For nature dies not here, this seems
To be unchanging life.
Not lost on Alpine breeze,
Nor thrown in garlands on the ice,
But left like tears to freeze.
They call all this the type of death,
O rather call it life!
For nature dies not here, this seems
To be unchanging life.
This river flows not to the sea,
These flowers do not die;
The very air seems but transfixed
To one eternal sigh.
These flowers do not die;
The very air seems but transfixed
To one eternal sigh.
Chamounix, 1861.
