Of Mice and Mountains
I looked down out of night,
and there the White Mountains!
Huge they weighed upon the silence
of the outer air,
broken here by the plane’s trembling roar,
there, a light scarcely moving,
and a moan under the constellations.
As a cat’s haunches slowly gather
before the final startling spring,
so these crouching forms seemed
brooding before,
with silent, tumultuous assent, they
leap, gigantic shapes
pausing over us.