The Tossing Mountains

They were like dreams that in a drowsy hour     A sad old God had dreamed in loneliness of power.     They were like dreams that in his drowsy mind     Rose slowly and then, darkening, made him wise and blind--     So that he saw no more the level sun,     Nor the small solid shadow of unclouded noon.     The dark green heights rose slowly from the green     Of the dark water till the sky was narrowly seen;     Only at night the lifting walls were still,     And stars were bright and calm above each calm dark hill.     ... I could not think but that a God grown old     Saw in a dream or waking all this round of bold     And wavelike hills, and knew them but a thought,     Or but a wave uptost and poised awhile then caught     Back to the sea with waves a million more     That rise and pause and break at last upon the shore.     A God, a God saw first those hills that I     Saw now immense upholding the starry crowded sky:     His breath the mist that clung their shoulders round,     His slow unconscious sigh that easeless floating sound.     Ere mine his thought failed under each rough height     And then was brave, seeing the stars climb calm and bright.     Ere they were named he named them in his mood,     Like varying children of one giant warring brood--     Broad-Foot, Cloud-Gatherer, Long-Back, Winter-Head,     Bravery and Bright-Face and that long Home of the Dead;     And their still waters glittering in his glance     Named Buckler, Silver Dish, Two Eyes and Shining Lance,     Names unrecorded, but the circling wind     Remembers and repeats them to the listening mind....     That mind was mine. At Shining Lance I stared     Between Long-Back and Winter-Head as the new sun bared     The Lake and heights of shadow and the wan gold     Deepened and new warmth came into the light's sharp cold.     And the near trees shivered no more but shook     Their music over Shining Lance; and the excited brook     Freshened in the sun's eye and tossed his spray     High and sparkling, and then sprang dancing, dancing away.     But Winter-Head and Long-Back, gravely bright,     Stood firm as if for ever and a day and a night--     As they were more than a wave before 'tis caught     Back to the tossing tide, more than a flying thought,     More than a dream that an old God once dreamed     When visionary not at all visionary seemed.