Drooping and draggled, reft and torn,
By every bold, uprising hill,
The mist seemed like a thing forlorn
Without consistency or will.
But, in an hour, behold a change;
Carved into pure and billowy grace
By mountain winds, that westward range,
It floats a snowy cloud through space;
Soft smiles the summer sky above,
Deep blue the river runs below,
And mirrors back, with answering love,
The mist, transformed to beauty now.