On western shores we roamed, and there,
Watching a hill that watched the wave,
We called him dull in pose and air,
A bulk not grand but merely grave;
So many mountains had we seen,
Lordly of countenance, build, and mien.

Then came a snowstorm in the night,
And all his ribs of rock, next morn —
All his anatomy — sprang to light,
With form and feature, carved and worn,
That rose out of the salt abyss
Magnificent in emphasis.

Imagine not that thou canst know
Mountains or men in very truth,
Until the tempest and the snow
Strike them at midnight without ruth,
Publishing clear, to morning's gaze,
The lineaments they strove to erase.
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