The mountain peaks are above the clouds,
the clouds rise below their summits,
like an old man’s beard steeped in the blue of heaven.
Sunrise where the angels ride upon
the rainbow, trails of it shining behind their wings.

To mount the trail
of light—the golden water.
From the hills they come speeding down
to make gold where the river is turning,
dip your feet,
dip your soul
into the river of such a thing.

• Carl Sandburg