These mountains reign alone, they do not share 
The transitory life of woods and streams; 
Wrapt in the deep solemnity of dreams, 
They drain the sunshine of the upper air. 
Beneath their peaks, the huge clouds, here and there, 
Take counsel of the wind, which all night screams 
Through grey, burnt forests where the moonlight beams 
On hidden lakes, and rocks worn smooth and bare. 

These mountains once, throned in some primal sea, 
Shook half the world with thunder, and the sun 
Pierced not the gloom that clung about their crest; 
Now with sealed lips, toilers from toil set free, 
Unvexed by fate, the part they played being done, 
They watch and wait in venerable rest.