At The Summit Poem by Harriet Monroe

Where bold Sierras cut the sky
Mount Whitney, of the high most high,
Halts the pale clouds that wander by.

We crept and climbed with eager feet,
Until the world, fulfilled, complete,
Plunged like despair before his seat.

So high the peak was we had won
Earth's air wore thin, its woof undone,
And blue space darkened round the sun.

Yet, as we trembled there and quailed,
Lo, higher yet an eagle scaled
Smooth steeps of air, and sunward sailed.