Primeval Presence, enthroned upon white space,
Who feel'st the lightnings wither on thy cheek,
Whose iron lips to cloud and thunder speak,
While slumbering aeons crowd thy shadowy base;
Who seest far city, stream, and planted place
And the blue sunlight on the hundredth peak —
Inexorable, calm, abiding, bleak —
Hail! genius of the mountains, awful face.

Hail and farewell! My spirit faints, and soft
The winds blow inland from eternity;
Thee 'twere not well revisiting too oft
If I would bind the sheaves allotted me —
Thee, nor the everlasting stars aloft,
Nor reaches of the irrevocable sea.