The Mountain

The mountain stood, a sentinel,
With rugged face against the skies,
It held the clouds upon its brow
And listened to the eagle’s cries.

In crags of ancient granite bare,
In lichen hues of emerald’s grace,
It sang its ballad to the wind
And watched the world below its face.

A monument of stone and time,
To dreams of man, to nature’s power,
In silence deep, with strength so vast,
The mountain blooms in Beauty’s hour.

• EJ Pratt