The Mountain
I hold above a careless land
The menace of the skies;
Within the hollow of my hand
The sleeping tempest lies.
Mine are the promise of the morn,
The triumph of the day;
And parting sunset’s beams forlorn
Upon my heights delay.
—Edward Sydney Tylee
“Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.” Shakespeare.