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Dedicated to the mountains of the San Juan district, Colorado, as seen from the summit of Mt. Wilson.

I stood at sunrise, on the topmost part Of lofty mountain, massively sublime; A pinnacle of trachyte, seamed and scarred By countless generations' ceaseless war And struggle with the restless elements; A rugged point, which shot into the air, As by ambition or desire impelled To pierce the eternal precincts of the sky.

Below, outspread,

A scene of such terrific grandeur lay

That reeled the brain at what the eyes beheld;

The hands would clench involuntarily

And clutch from intuition for support;

The eyes by instinct closed, nor dared to gaze

On such an awful and inspiring sight.

The sun arose with bright transcendent ray,

Up from behind a bleak and barren reef;

His face resplendent with beatitude,

Solar effulgence and combustive gleam;

Bathing the scene in such a wealth of light

That none could marvel that primeval man,

Rude and untaught, whene'er the sun appeared,

Fell down and worshiped.

A wilderness of weird, fantastic shapes,

Of precipice and stern declivity;

Of dizzy heights, and towering minarets;

Colossal columns and basaltic spires

Which pointing heavenward, appeared to wave

In benediction o'er the depths beneath.

Uneven crags and cliffs of various form;

Abysmal depths, and dire profundities;

Chasms so deep and awful that the eye

Of soaring eagle dare not gaze below,

Lest, dizzied, he should lose his aerial poise,

And headlong falling, reach the gulf beneath.

Majestic turrets, and the stately dome Which, ovaled by the slow but tireless hand Of eons of disintegrating time, Still with impressive aspect rears its brow Defiant of mutation and decay.