The storm which shook the silence of the hills 
And sleeping pinnacles of ancient snow 
Went muttering off in one last thunder throe 
Mixed with a moan of multitudinous rills; 
Yea, even as one who has wept much, but stills 
The flowing tears of some convulsive woe 
When a fair light of hope begins to glow 
Athwart the gloom of long remembered ills: 

So does the face of this scarred mountain height 
Relax its stony frown, while slow uprolled 
Invidious mists are changed to veiling gold. 
Wild peaks still fluctuate between dark and bright, 
But when the sun laughs at them, as of old, 
They kiss high heaven in all embracing light.