Alpine hunter

The heights thunder, the little bridge trembles,

but the hunter feels no dread on his dizzy path.

He strides audaciously

on the ice-fields,

where no spring glitters

and no shoot grows green;

Far beneath his feet is a misty sea

and he knows the towns of men no more;

Only through a tear in the clouds

does he glimpse the world

far below the streams:

a field turning green.