Poem by Alfred Castner King

* * *

There is an air of majesty,
A bearing dignified and free,
      About the mountain peaks;
Each crag of weather-beaten stone
Presents a grandeur of its own
      To him who seeks.

There is a proud, defiant mein,
Expressive, stern, and yet serene,
      About the precipice;
Whose rugged form looks grimly down,
And answers, with an austere frown
      The sunlight's kiss.

The mountain, with the snow bank crowned;
The gorge, abysmal and profound;
      Impress with aspect grand:
With unfeigned reverence I see
In canon and declivity
      The All-Wise Hand.

1. To the Pines
2. Grandeur
3. Life's Mystery
4. Nature's Child
5. The Fallen Tree

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