When Day cometh over the dim mountain tops,
She seeth, far down in the enchanted copse,
Her fair face reflected in that magic glass
Laid on the lawn where the Merced doth pass.
Lo, the vale hangs inverted, enfolded in firs,
Thro' fathoms of crystal the soaring lark whirrs,
And seemeth to sink into eternity
In the marvelous mirror of Yosemite.
She lingereth there, o'er the sky lintel bent,
And seeth beneath her the blue firmament,
Watching the mists of the morning that scale
The path of the winding and perilous trail,
The steeps of the Sierra's gray monochrome,
The storm-smitten summit of awful Souoth Dome,
When by the great portal of red Porphyry
The sun drives his car into Yosemite.
Below, in clear water, the tall turrets swing,
The bold cedar-trees to the terraces cling,
The sevenfold rainbow is flinging its span
From Bridal Veil Falls unto El Capitan.
As spun by the sun from the foamy cascade,
When arching across the aërial glade,
It looks like the girder of God's balcony,
From which He looks down into Yosemite.
Sometimes in the dawning the clouds seem to stand
On a far-away ledge, like an angelic band
That pauses in flight, on the opaline verge
Where the sky and the snow into mystery merge;
Then Day to the seraphs shout o'er the abyss,
"O shining and sinless ones, answer me this:
Can aught in your heaven of heavens e'er be
As sublime as this splendor of Yosemite?"