Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between Heights which appear as lovers who have parted[ki][337] In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted: Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, Love was the very root of the fond rage Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed:-- Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winters,--war within themselves to wage:[kj] XCV. Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way, The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand: For here, not one, but many, make their play, And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand, Flashing and cast around: of all the band, The brightest through these parted hills hath forked His lightnings,--as if he did understand, That in such gaps as Desolation worked, There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurked. XCVI. Sky--Mountains--River--Winds--Lake--Lightnings! ye! With night, and clouds, and thunder--and a Soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful; the far roll Of your departing voices, is the knoll[338] Of what in me is sleepless,--if I rest. But where of ye, O Tempests! is the goal? Are ye like those within the human breast? Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest? XCVII. Could I embody and unbosom now That which is most within me,--could I wreak My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw Soul--heart--mind--passions--feelings--strong or weak-- All that I would have sought, and all I seek, Bear, know, feel--and yet breathe--into _one_ word, And that one word were Lightning, I would speak; But as it is, I live and die unheard, With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. XCVIII. The Morn is up again, the dewy Morn, With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom-- Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, And living as if earth contained no tomb,-- And glowing into day: we may resume The march of our existence: and thus I, Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room And food for meditation, nor pass by Much, that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly. XCIX.