Classic Poem

Give me rock that leans against the sky,
Trees that climb upward, sparsely, short of breath,
Height that tunes the wind to a taut cry, —
A colder death.

Shape my horizon by this clear edge,
That lifts the moon on a rocky shoulder.
What if the dark is cut by a darker wedge,
Stronger, bolder?

Height is a need. Man strives to rise,
To see far, to find the air clearer.
For him the mountain shall bring down the skies,
Bring stars nearer.