Deep in the bosom of a rock-ribbed world,
Shook everlasting hills from out his path,
Like a roused lion flinging from his mane
The dewy drops of morning. At his tread
The pale earth trembled, and anon there came
A crushing down of rocky battlements,
Which, for a moment, high and quivering hung,
On cloud-crowned pinnacles, then thundering fell
Far down the dark, immeasurable void
Which yawned beneath them like the livid lips