Classic Poem

'Tis winter where Sierra's peaks gigantic
Loom in eternal phalanx by the West,
And now the mist, in folds and loopings antic,
Hangs drapery round each grim and ancient crest.

What scenes of vastness and of grandeur varied,
Impressive sounds and overwhelming sights,
Dwell round these cliffs, rain-plowed and lightning-quarried,
These lonely aisles and earthquake-builded heights!

On him who wanders here, with what intensity
Do feelings of man's nothingness intrude;
How is he swallowed up in the immensity
Of nature in her wild and stormful mood!

Long ere the Genoese set sail, exploring,
With ships inverted, far in unknown tides,
Forgotten men have yearly heard the roaring
Of new-born torrents on these mountain-sides.

These stately peaks, unseen of eyes Caucasian,
From time's daybreak have reared their heads on high;
'Mid shifting years of untold peace and passion,
Have watched the pigmy ages shrink and die.

Grim monuments of long forgotten races!
Crush not my spirit 'neath your piles sublime;
Let not the legend on your battered faces
Too much oppress the fleeting son of Time.

O man, look up, and tell these giants hoary
That greatness is not all a thing of size;
Thou art a spark of that Celestial Glory
Whose wisdom set their heads among the skies.