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poem, perhaps sent to Wilford soon after it was written |
This is the lure of the mountains--- Infinite artistry, beauty and majesty, Loveliness crowning immensity--- Sired by the earthquake, mothered by thunder Ramparts of bed-rock, sculptured in splendour Grandeur of space and eternity--- These are the mountains! This is the lift of the mountains--- Pinnacled peaks piercing the skies, Hoary old summits nursing the snows, Higher than even the eagle knows, Towering crags where the glaciers rest, Sentinels guarding a continent's crest--- Assiniboinie, Rundle, Eisenhower, Temple--- These are the Rockies! This is the lilt of the mountains--- The whisper of winds in the woodlands Which verdure the mountains feet; The murmur of crystal waters Which foam from a cool retreat, The music these streamlets make Cascading through flowered gorges To a turquoise river or emerald lake; These are the mountains! And this is the speech of the mountains--- In accents of eloquent silence, Speaking to man of his littleness, Telling of God and His greatness, Proclaiming their age-old tiding That everything fine and abiding Must rest on the might and the vastness And the purpose immortal of God: Oh, list to the mountains! |