Sonnet 102

Ye towering mountains upon mountains pil'd,
Rocks upon rocks up to the cloudy sky,
Build me a temple on your summits high,
Whence I may reach that angel, far exil'd.
Ye towering mountains upon mountains pil'd!
Ye gathering streams that, thro' your beds beguil'd,
Roll thundering to the Ocean's majesty,
Singing loud anthems as ye hasten by—
Bear these, my tears, uncheck'd and undefil'd.
Ye gathering streams to ocean's depths that hie!
Ye winds, ye breezes, wherefore are ye still?
Freshen and bear my sighs to her high throne:
Take pity—hasten—and my prayers fulfil—
Ye winds, ye breezes, wherefore are ye still?
Waft me to her, seraphic messengers,
Or her to me—nor let me pine alone;
For what are clouds, or storms, or ghostly fears?
Waft me to her, seraphic messengers!