My soul would drink those echoes. Oh that I were

The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, A living voice, a breathing harmony, A bodiless enjoyment, born and

dying

With the blest tone which made me! Ye toppling crags of ice!

Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down

In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me!

I hear ye momently above, beneath, Crash with a frequent conflict; but ye pass,

And only fall on things that still would live;

On the young flourishing forest, or the hut

And hamlet of the harmless villager. The mists boil up around the glaciers; clouds

Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury,

Like foam from the roused ocean of deep hell,

Whose every wave breaks on a living shore,

Heaped with the damned like pebbles. I am giddy.

THE APPARITION.

BYRON.