ALASKA 



Fiords of the far west shore, where peaks sublime 

 Are cloudward thrust 'neath folds of glistening snow, 

 With hoar and frigid streams that tideward flow, 



Sculpturing their cliffs and crags which mount and climb 



Full in the sight of heaven — grim heirs of time, 

 Stern children of eternity, that grow 

 Austere and terrible 'mid storms that blow 



Their lusty trumpets in the tempest's prime. 



What joy is this to float upon thy tide, 



So blue, so beautiful, to gently glide 



'Mid islets forested, past shores that stand, 

 Dark portals opening to enchantment's land, 



Where all is but a dream, soon to be 



Lost in the purple mist of memory. 



Charles Keeler. 



Prince William Sound, 

 June 28, 1899. 



