A stillness deeper than the dearth of sound
  Broods over thee:  a living silence breathes
  Perpetual incense from thy dim abyss. 
  The morning-stars that sang above the bower
  Of Eden, passing over thee, are dumb
  With trembling bright amazement; and the Dawn
  Steals through the glimmering pines with naked feet,
  Her hand upon her lips, to look on thee! 
  She peers into thy depths with silent prayer
  For light, more light, to part thy purple veil. 
  O Earth, swift-rolling Earth, reveal, reveal,—­
  Turn to the East, and show upon thy breast
  The mightiest marvel in the realm of Time!

  ’Tis done,—­the morning miracle of light,—­
  The resurrection of the world of hues
  That die with dark, and daily rise again
  With every rising of the splendid Sun!

  Be still, my heart!  Now Nature holds her breath
  To see the solar flood of radiance leap
  Across the chasm, and crown the western rim
  Of alabaster with a far-away
  Rampart of pearl, and flowing down by walls
  Of changeful opal, deepen into gold
  Of topaz, rosy gold of tourmaline,
  Crimson of garnet, green and gray of jade,
  Purple of amethyst, and ruby red,
  Beryl, and sard, and royal porphyry;
  Until the cataract of colour breaks
  Upon the blackness of the granite floor.

  How far below!  And all between is cleft
  And carved into a hundred curving miles
  Of unimagined architecture!  Tombs,
  Temples, and colonnades are neighboured there
  By fortresses that Titans might defend,
  And amphitheatres where Gods might strive. 
  Cathedrals, buttressed with unnumbered tiers
  Of ruddy rock, lift to the sapphire sky
  A single spire of marble pure as snow;
  And huge aerial palaces arise
  Like mountains built of unconsuming flame. 
  Along the weathered walls, or standing deep
  In riven valleys where no foot may tread,
  Are lonely pillars, and tall monuments
  Of perished aeons and forgotten things. 
  My sight is baffled by the wide array
  Of countless forms:  my vision reels and swims
  Above them, like a bird in whirling winds. 
  Yet no confusion fills the awful chasm;
  But spacious order and a sense of peace
  Brood over all.  For every shape that looms
  Majestic in the throng, is set apart
  From all the others by its far-flung shade,
  Blue, blue, as if a mountain-lake were there.

  How still it is!  Dear God, I hardly dare
  To breathe, for fear the fathomless abyss
  Will draw me down into eternal sleep.

  What force has formed this masterpiece of awe? 
  What hands have wrought these wonders in the waste? 
  O river, gleaming in the narrow rift
  Of gloom that cleaves the valley’s nether deep,—­
  Fierce Colorado, prisoned by thy toil,
  And blindly toiling still to reach the sea,—­