They Glow, They Gloom, They Shine

This place exerts a magnetic spell. The sky is there above it but not of it. Its being is apart; its climate, its light, its own. The beams of the sun come into it like visitors. Its own winds blow through it, not those of outside, where we live. The River streams down its mysterious reaches, hurrying ceaselessly; sometimes a smooth sliding lap, sometimes a falling broken wilderness of billows and whirlpools. Above stand its walls, rising through space upon space of silence. They glow, they gloom, they shine.
--Owen Wister