Travelling by train from Paris to Milan,
Spooked and saddened from too much movement;
My uneasy rest was cut short by the customs official demanding my passport
I had been in one of those sleeps which do not let go of the heart,
And was thick-tongued and weepy, searching blindly in the dark sleeping car for my papers.
The official looked upon me with something that I now understand to be compassion;
“Regardez-vous mademoiselle,” said he, and sent the blinds screeching up;
“You won’t forgive yourself for having missed this.”
Outside the window the sun was rising.
The Swiss Alps were delicate and gigantic in the rosy light
And impossibly high above them, the Matterhorn leaned his white head down over the crowd
To peer at the tiny toy train laboring past his feet.
Image; Sunrise on the Matterhorn, Albert Bierstadt