I will raise to her, I said, the oaken sacrifice of every vein. I will bring to her – a foolish whim – starry lightning of the islands of the sea, tender pangs of the cliff mosses, the long patient hieroglyphic of seaweed. But never have I blown the trumpet of the sun in triumph over her tumbling snows, nor tamed either depth or soaring height of her blue with the hard-edged wounding reins of our myth.