The Sublime

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To stand upon a windy pinnacle,Beneath the infinite blue of the blue noon,And underfoot a valley terribleAs that dim gulf, where sense and being swoonWhen the soul parts; a giant valley strewnWith giant rocks; asleep, and vast, and still,And far away. The torrent, which has hewnHis pathway through the entrails of the hill,Now crawls along the bottom and anonLifts up his voice, a muffled tremulous roar,Borne on the wind an instant, and then goneBack to the caverns of the middle air;A voice as of a nation overthrownWith beat of drums, when hosts have marched to war.

© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt