On the skirts of Saint Gabriel's range I peek
At the rises who lift beyond, not so steep
As t'inspire fear
In him the hiker drawing near.
Rugs of chlorophyllic ties
Drape the white rocks as they rise
To drink from smoggen bluish skies
To drink and dance I do surmise.
In woods on hills, I like to think,
That sky would trouble me a drink
And rocks and trees would whistle with
My humblest and most heart-wrought gift.
The mountains rise and fall within
A panorama, that's how thin.
Wretch'd, the life which weans itself
From Gabriel's enchanted shelf.
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