I like unlettered mountains, all unknown
To poets, where no piping capriped
Repeats a borrowed song, while softly tread
The nymphs that love the dark stream or the stone.
I want an animism of my own.
What were those strange and lovely things that fled
As I glanced up?     What that primeval dread
I felt in the spiritual waste alone?

Appear, take shape and substance.     I evoke
Your presence out of the uncharméd rock
That no magician yet had skill to mock
With hackneyed spells.     The spirit of the peak
Rosy with dusk possesses me.     The oak
Quivers with a wild meaning.     Speak to me—speak.

From Guinea-Fowl and Other Poultry (Harper & Brothers, 1927) by Leonard Bacon. Copyright © 1927 by Harper & Brothers. This poem is in the public domain.