Night On The Mountain

The fog has risen from the sea and crowned
The dark, untrod­den sum­mits of the coast,
Where roams a voice, in canyons utter­most,
From mid­night waters vibrant and pro­found.
High on each gran­ite altar dies the sound,
Deep as the tram­pling of an armored host,
Lone as the lamen­ta­tion of a ghost,
Sad as the dia­pa­son of the drowned.

The moun­tain seems no more a soul­less thing,
But rather as a shape of ancient fear,
In dark­ness and the winds of Chaos born
Amid the lord­less heav­ens’ thun­der­ing–
A Pres­ence crouched, enor­mous and aus­tere,
Before whose feet the mighty waters mourn.

-George Sterling