On hills too harsh for firs to climb,
Where eagle dare not hatch her brood,
Upon the peak of solitude,
With anvils of black granite crude
I forge austerities of rhyme.

Such godlike stuff my spirit drinks
I make grand odes of tempests there.
The steel-winged eagle, if he dare
To cleave these tracts of frozen air,
Hearing such music, swoops and sinks.

Stark clangours of forgotten wars,
Tumults of primal love and hate,
Through crags of song reverberate.
Held by the Singer of High State,
Battalions of the midnight pause.

On hills uplift from Space and Time,
Upon the peak of Solitude,
With stars to give my furnace food,
On anvils of black granite crude
I forge austerities of rhyme.