On Skiddaw and Derwent Water

Ruskin was a certainly a poet.
Even his early work did show it.

upon thy heights the sun shines
bright
But only for a moment then gives place

Unto a playful cloud which on thy brow
Sports wantonly then floats away in air
Throwing its shadow on thy towering height
And darkening for a moment they green side [ride?]
But adds unto its beauty as it makes

The sun more bright when it again appears.
Then in the morning on thy brow those
clouds
Rest as upon a couch and give fair scope
For fancys play and airy fortresses 1

And towers battlements and all appear
Chasing each other off and in their turn
Are chased by the others. But enough
I've treated of the clouds 2 Now Skiddaw come
Noble and grand and beauteous clothed with

green
And yet but scantily. And in some parts
A bare terrific cliff precipitate
Descends with only here and there a bush
A straggler with its roots fixed in the stone

And bare a scraggy as befits the soil.
Skiddaw majestic giant natures work
Lower than Alps or Andes. Pyrenee=s
Are all much higher But those works of art
Those giant works of art 3 with thee compared

Sink into nothing. All that art can do
Is nothing beside thee. The touch of man
Raised pigmy mountains but gigantic tombs
The touch of nature raised the mountains brow
But made no tombs at all save where the snow

The fleecy locks of winter fall around
And form a frail memorial for the sain
Who wanders far from home and meets his
death
Amidst the cold of Winter. But no more

On this sad subject on this happy day 4
Now Derwent Water come A looking glass
Wherein reflected are the mountains height
As in a mirror framed in rocks and woods.
So upon thee there is a seeming mount

A seeming tree a seming rivulet
All upon thee are painted by a hand
Which not a critic can well criticise
But to disturb thee oft bluf Eolus
Descends upon the mountains With his

breath
Thy polished surface is a boy at play
Who labours at the snow to make a man
And when he=s made it knocks it down
again

So when thou=st made a picture thou dost
play
At tearing it to pieces Trees do first
Tremble as if a monstrous heart of Oak
Were but an aspen leaf and then as if

It were a cobweb in the tempests blow
Thus like Penelope thou weavst a web
And then thou dost undo it. Thou=rt like her
Because thourt fair and oft deceiving too
Sweet Derwent on thy winding shore

Beside thy mountain forests hoar
There would I like to wander still
And drink from out the rippling rill
Which from thy mountain head doth fall
And mingles with the eagles call

While on Helvellyn thunder roars
Re-echoed by all Derwents shores
And where the lightning flashes still
Reflected in the mountain rill.