  Centuries old are the mountains; Their foreheads wrinkled and rifted, Helios crowns by day, Pallid, serene by night; From their bosoms uptossed The snows are driven and drifted Like Lithonus' beard Streaming, disheveled and white. Thunder and tempest of wind Their trumpets blow in the vastness; Phantoms of mist and rain, Cloud and the shadow of cloud, Pass and repass by the gates Of their inaccessible fastness; Ever unmoved they stand, Solemn, eternal and proud. —Longfellow in "The Mask of Pandora." |
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