I was with the men who conquered all the Alps, and climbing higher
Watched, from Caucasus or Andes, Phosphor soaring like a fire;
But, successors of De Saussure! You, presumably with souls,
Who treat Heaven’s nearest neighbours as the pit-bear treats his poles,
Show your foolish “forms” upon them, “cutting records” as you run,
Craving of a crowd that jeers you, notoriety—your bun!
You, who love an “Alpine centre” and an inn that’s full of people,
Where the tourists gape in wonder while their Jack beflags his steeple;
Stars, who twinkle with your axes, while girls “wonder what you are,”
Through a village, that’s the image of a Charity Bazaar;