Our Self-Existence: 6 -

Through pain we reach a lonely region fair

With the immortal mountain-winds of God,

Whereunto winds a weird untravelled road,

Thrilled by the high song of the mountain-air.

The altar of our faithful love is there

On the sheer hill-side trackless and untrod;

By power of earnest endless passion shod

Our feet have climbed the rocks and glaciers bare.

And now we stand together on the height

And sweeter than the singing of the vale

Is this my harp-string that the keen airs smite,

And sweeter art thou, rose, though thou art pale

Than all the blossoms spread for love's delight

Where through green meads the dull-winged zephyrs sail.

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