Ye cloud-wreathed peaks, ye children of an age
Beyond the names of men and memory,
Who stand austere and still. Born of the rage
Of the deep-set earth, half-clothed now verdantly
In forests of pine; your upthrust layers speak
Of cataclysmic forces far beneath
And high above this place; a world could break
Upon your granite armor, adamant teeth,
To move you not. High on your brows are laid
Glacial-fired crowns, which silent blaze
Like beacons forth: eternity displayed
For all who lift their eyes and upward gaze.
O happy, ye impregnables of stone,
Ye incorruptibles; you are a light
For all of us who yearn to be our own,
To stand against the accumulated might
Of mankind's cruel oppressors. Pinnacles bold,
As you've withstood an elemental fray
Of aeons - foemen of a tougher mold -
We too will overcome our baneful day.
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