The simple goatherd, between Alp and sky, Seeing his shadow, in that awful tryst, Dilated to a giant's on the mist, Esteems not his own stature larger by The apparent image, but more patiently Strikes his staff down beneath his clenching fist— While the snow-mountains lift their amethyst And sapphire crowns of splendor, far and nigh, Into the air around him. Learn from hence Meek morals, all ye poets that pursue Your way still onward, up to eminence! Ye are not great, because creation drew Large revelations round your earliest sense, Nor bright, because God's glory shines for you.
