Rocky Mountains
I love to climb these hills unique,
To reach their very topmost peak,
O’er trails of a thousand thrills.
Away from the cities’ pomp and noise,
Its affectation, care and joys,
Its falsehood, sham and ills.
Your mind, your thoughts to purity cleave;
There’s nothing here for the make-believe
In these gorgeous Rocky Mountains.
You’re filled with awe, along the trail,
When first these mighty mounts you scale
And o’er these hills you trod;
Its wall of rock will tower high
Above the clouds, toward the sky,
Like citadels of God.
Its sepulchral silence—naught is heard
Save the call of the beast, the song of the bird
And the wind in the trees of the mountains.
But soon you love—almost revere
Those massive heights the first you fear;
That stand out there alone.
The air, exhilarant and pure,
Castles of rock that will ever endure;
Those mighty walls of stone
In colors of red and gray and blue,
Of green and brown and every hue,
These beautiful Rocky Mountains.
You know there’s a God (when you’re up there
With nothing above but sky and air)
That made those rocks you stand on.
Surely there’s an Omnipotent Power,
Who built these hills that tower and tower,
Beyond the too-far horizon;
Created these peaks and canons grand,
Constructed these rocks of granite and sand,
These majestic Rocky Mountains.
You feel your unimportance here,
Up on top of earth’s great sphere,
Standing there alone
You see how little man can do
When these scenes burst upon your view,
From out the great unknown;
He only can scratch at its treasures untold,
He never can gather a tithe of the gold
From the wonderful Rocky Mountains.
Out of the rocks, from God knows where,
Water springs to life up there,
From the sides of these eminent mounts;
Rushes down from these old hills,
Down o’er the rocks and sands to the rills,
Out of these mighty founts;
Down through the gorge, over the brakes,
Through creeks and rivers and on to the lakes,
In these amazing Rocky Mountains.
Amid these scenes that’s most sublime
The poet will burst into rhyme,
The sculptor molds his clay;
The layman shouts his admiration,
The artist feels his inspiration,
The author writes his play
Of tragedy, romance, tales that thrill
In these beautiful canons and wonderful hills,
Of these marvelous Rocky Mountains.