The Hills on Their Thrones

GHOSTLY and livid, robed with shadow, see!
Each mighty Mountain silent on its throne,
From foot to scalp one stretch of livid stone,
Without one gleam of grass or greenery.
Silent they take the immutable decree —
Darkness or sunlight come, — they do not stir;
Each bare brow lifted desolately free,
Keepeth the silence of a death-chamber.
Silent they watch each other until-doom;
They see each other's phantoms come and go,
Yet stir not. Now the stormy hour brings gloom,
Now all things grow confused and black below,
Specific through the cloudy Drift they loom,
And each accepts his individual woe.