Mountain mist lay still on the lake below,
as if Olympus’ gates spilled onto Earth
to create our heaven; a gift bestowed.

And show our timid secrets and our worth,
In a valley lit and shadows dispersed.
A looming mystery, a virgin birth.

Oh, the Old gods have cascaded this pursed
Crescent Lake that holds the deepest fountains.
This serene body clouded by a curse

Now lifted by my eyes beneath mountains.
No rain, or snow, or sleet, or fog can shroud
Us in this range of rigged horizons.

Lay still, North Wind, this love has been avowed.