Обри Томас Де Вер (Aubrey Thomas De Vere)

To a Flower on the Skirts of Mont Blanc

WITH heart not yet half rested from Mont Blanc,
O’er thee, small flower, my wearied eyes I bent,
And rested on that humbler vision long.
Is there less beauty in thy purple tent
Outspread, perchance a boundless firmament
O’er viewless myriads which beneath thee throng,
Than in that mount whose sides, with ruin hung,
Frown o’er black glens and gorges thunder-rent?
Is there less mystery? Wisely if we ponder,
Thine is the mightier marvel. Life in thee
Is strong as in cherubic wings that wander,
Seeking the limits of Infinity;—
Life, life to be transmitted, not to expire
Till yonder snowy vault shall melt in the last fire!

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