Some stunted shrub hangs midway from the top,
Stretching its blighted branches in the air,
Or scattering withered leaves. Their summits shoot
Far upward to the sky—and sometimes there
The eagle on his heavenward path will pause
To rest his wearied wing, and gaze below
Into the broad white lake, where snowy sails
Swell in the summer breeze. But mortal foot
Hath never climbed those heights. At their deep base
The everlasting surge hath worn itself