Sonnet Lviii. Descent Of The Same. Poem by Henry Alford

Glory on glory greets our wondering sight
As we wind down these slopes; mountain and plain
Robed in rich sunshine, and the distant main
Lacing the sky with silver; and yon height,
So lately left in clouds, distinct and bright.
Anon the mist enwraps us; then again
Burst into view lakes, pastures, fields of grain,
And rocky passes, with their torrents white.
So on the head perchance, and highest bent
Of thine endeavour, Heaven may stint the dower
Of rich reward long hoped; but thine ascent
Was full of pleasures,--and the teaching hour
Of disappointment hath a kindly voice,
That moves the spirit inly to rejoice.