ON the Righi Kulm we stood,

Lovely Floribel and I,

While the morning’s crimson flood

Streamed along the eastern sky.

Reddened every mountain peak

Into rose, from twilight dun;

But the blush upon her cheek

Was not lighted by the sun!

 

On the Righi Kulm we sat,

Lovely Floribel and I,

Plucking bluebells for her hat

From a mound that blossomed nigh.

“We are near to heaven,” she sighed,

While her raven lashes fell.

“Nearer,” softly I replied,

“Than the mountain’s height may tell.”

 

Down the Righi’s side we sped,

Lovely Floribel and I,

But her morning blush had fled,

And the bluebells all were dry.

Of the height the dream was born;

Of the lower air it died;

And the passion of the morn

Flagged and fell at eventide.

 

From the breast of blue Lucerne

Lovely Floribel and I

Saw the brand of sunset burn

On the Righi Kulm, and die.

And we wondered, gazing thus,

If our dream would still remain

On the height, and wait for us

Till we climb to heaven again!