Robert FrostThe 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.