In these slumberous vales
and shy, silent dales,
My spirit escapes the clutch-hold
of my confined being,
And ecstatically saunters away
to those snow-melting peaks,
where the March sun breastfeeds
many a tiny rivulets,
Like a helpless, rooted palm,
I assuage myself and put balm
on my constricted conscience,
Cold sighs I vent out,
as the pinnacled majesty winks
from far with a seductive pout,
And my forlorn spirit runs amok
and flies to kiss those
coyly surrendering, shining crystals,--
Away, away where rock’s snobby
ego melts maternally!
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