Cheyenne Mountain

By easy slope to west as if it had

    No thought, when first its soaring was begun,

    Except to look devoutly to the sun,

It rises, and has risen, until, glad,

With light as with a garment, it is clad,

    Each dawn, before the tardy plains have won

    One ray; and after day has long been done

For us, the light doth cling reluctant, sad

To leave its brow.

                        Beloved mountain, I

Thy worshipper, as thou the sun’s, each morn,

    My dawn, before the dawn, receive from thee;

    And think, as thy rose-tinted peaks I see,

That thou wert great when Homer was not born,

And ere thou change all human song shall die!