These were in truth brave days. From our high perch, <br />The box--seat of our travelling chariot, then <br />We children spied the world 'twas ours to search, <br />And mocked like birds at manners and at men. <br />What wonders we beheld, Havre, Rouen, Caen, <br />The Norman caps, the Breton crowds in church, <br />The loyal Loire, the valorous Vendéen, <br />And all the Revolution left in lurch <br />That very year--things old as Waterloo. <br />But when we neared the mountains crowned with snows, <br />And heard the torrents roar, our wonder grew <br />Over our wit, and a new pleasure rose <br />Wild in our hearts, and stopped our tongues with dread, <br />The sense of death and beauty overhead.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-new-pilgrimage-sonnet-ix/
