Classic Poem

The trembling train clings to the leaning wall
Of solid stone; a thousand feet below
Sinks a black gulf; the sky hangs like a pall
Upon the peaks of everlasting snow.

Then of a sudden springs a rim of light,
Curved like a silver sickle. High and higher—
Till the full moon burns on the breast of night,
And a million firs stand tipped with lucent fire.