Ginsberg builds the poem like a set of boxes, each one sitting inside the next. First comes the huge outdoors, a mountain. Then a room, then a human skull. Each space gets a matching thing that fills it: snow on the mountain, flowers in the room, thoughts in the skull.
The pairing quietly puts these things on the same level. Snow is cold, big and far away. Flowers are small, close and alive. Thoughts are invisible, but the poem lists them just as plainly as the other two. The speaker doesn't tell us how to feel, and that calm, almost camera-like stance is the point. He simply looks, and moves inward from landscape to home to mind.
The mood is still and quiet, a little spare, with a feeling of clear attention. Judging by the title, the mountain may be a Wyoming view, but the poem cares less about place than about how the mind sits inside the world, watching it.