The Mountain sat upon the Plain
In his enormous Chair—
His Feet were held in by the Sky—
His Hands—were in the Air—

His Fingers were of Frost—
The Thunder—was his Voice—
The Lightning—wore his Trousers in
The chasms of his Noise—

In a Spirit of cosey Christmas,
The sunshine—rested there—
The low, bare mountain laughed aloud
To see his seat so bare—

To be Grand is Godless—
Recapitulate his Place!

• Emily Dickinson