All day through the cloven mountains
Up a miracle-aisle we passed,
And we saw the stream transfigured
In the forest-shrine at last.
Down where the glen sinks deepest
Into the mountain's breast,
We looked up and beheld it,
High on the round world's crest,
When a vision white and whiter
Sprang over the arché d steep,
It was spirit, it was not water,
Rose up from that fearful leap.
The pure spray bathed our faces,
And the tears of joy did well--
If in or out of the body
I saw it, I cannot tell.
But I saw a clear soul leaping,
Chanting its last brave breath,
Dashed into glory and lightness
On the sharp black rocks of death--
Lifting white hands of rapture,
Showering rainbow rays,
And making the Lord God gladder
With a great Amen of praise.