George Powell Thomas

SHARP, clear, and crystalline, cleaving the sky

In twain, it towers forever and alone,

Save that about its feet the tall hills lie,

Like slaves around some mighty despot’s throne;

While evermore, beneath its cold stern eye,

The short-lived centuries have come and flown,

And stars that round its head untiring fly,

Confess its glories ancient as their own.

The eagles shun it in their highest flight;

The clouds lie basking ’neath its eminence;

Naught nears it but thin air and heaven’s sweet light,

Nor not a sound forever cometh thence,

Save of some avalanche from its summit riven,

Or thunder-tempest on its breakers driven.