To the north, behind the mountain, the scenery changes; the soft, rounded lines, the graceful hills […] are suddenly followed by a broken terrain of uneven ground and gaping precipices. 
There, wind sinuous ravines where the Aquilon wind whistles, where trees are bent uprooted by a storm, where during the winter the snow piles up, the ice hardens, the torrents rage and boil; further on, black rocks bristle with terrifying needles, torn by lightning, their splinters rolling down the precipices. Then, in the distance, appear the peaks of the Alps, whitened by eternal snow and draped in scattered pieces of cloud.”

Jean-Henri FABRE, L’Indicateur d’Avignon, 1842

We were hoping for the sun […]. Day rose; before it, the dark night rolled back, filled with emotion, gradually lightening, its brightest stars gradually fading away […]. It’s going to appear, it’s coming, here it is! Our joyful cries greet it. Here is half of it, here is all of it! It rises, this superb giant, and as it rises, as if in a cloud of silver and gold, it sways and quivers; the diamonds in its crown sparkle and dazzle […]. It seems as if the clouds are burning at its feet, the Alps are blazing on its right, the sea ablaze on its left. And it rises. The earth awakens, happy, and smiles at it, ecstatic. 

Joseph ROUMANILLE, Deux lettres à ma brave sœur Toinette, 1851