Alpenglow ripening the mountain peaks
Into rose-pink pyramids steeped in clouds.
How this light, like a choir of silence,
Queues in the air to sing the snowy mass
To shine, I don’t know. And yet the chilled dusk,
Remarkable and rude, runs rouge and glows
As though the blue poem of the Earth desired,
And became, the great rose poem of Heaven,
With its champagne peaks and savage thickets
And shrub and break and tangling bushes.
The poem that revolves in two directions
At once, circling us in two directions.