Jephthah and Other Mysteries

130 MYSTERIES: A DESCENT OF THE MOENCH. JULY 14, 1896. N island of the mist. White companies Of clouds thronged wondrously against the hills, And in the east a darkening of the winds That held awhile their breath for very rage, Too wild for aught but vaporous quivering Of melting fleeces, while the sudden sun Fled to his home. Afar the Matterhorn Reared a gaunt pinnacle athwart the bank, Where towered behind it one vast pillar of cloud To thrice its height. Behold the ice-clad dome On which we stood, all weary of the way, And marked the east awaken into scorn, And rush upon us. Then we set our teeth To force a dangerous passage, and essayed The steep slope not in vain. We pushed our way Slowly and careworn down the icy ridge, Hewing with ponderous strokes the riven ice In little flakes and chips, and now again Encountered strange and fearsome sentinels, Gray pinnacles of lightning-riven rock Fashioned of fire and night. We clomb adown