Slow mists were on the ridges all around,
And in the kloofs; and on the mountain-side
They moved and swayed, a softly flowing tide
That rose against the rocks without a sound,
Then circled back upon the lower ground
In folding mazes that would not abide
A moment there, but wandered far and wide
In billowy waves no shores were set to bound.
Our raptured souls were in that magic sea,
And in those wreaths that journeyed with the wind
Were all our thoughts, and in each eager mind
The beauty of that morning mystery
Became an exultation, yet to be
Remembered when our mortal eyes are blind.