The mountains rise above me…
Whenever do they not?
If I went climbing every one
And carved my name in every top,
Would the mountains know their master?
Would they bow or sing my name?
Would they crumble to the ocean in grief?
Or would they care,
No, they wouldn’t care, or grieve,
Or try to shake me off in anger.
Only sit their patient as God
Waiting for me to tire and come down;
So they could be taller again,
The arrogant bastards.