A Mountain sat at noontide -
In his Vermilion robe -
His head was full of Mist -
And his throat, the double globe -

In thousands, to assume -
The grandeur, yet unfold -
He mid the gaze of many -
And his gaze is double gold -

And though the gold -
Of many flows -
Yet only we, of Mortals -
For a dream to unfold -

Into what diviner
Of upper Range -
He merely sat, in silence -
And all the stars were there -

Then all that was light -
What the scene could know -
Graced by Heaven, credulous -
Yet filled with such a glow -

Effused through all his Accent -
The Audacity that now -
Seemed as profound, as finitudes -
Underneath, Power’s bow!

• Emily Dickinson