On a Thibetan precipice
(It was Thibet, I think),
A place of snow and black abyss;
We lay on rock—mid wind and sky—
Above a beetling brink.
For lo, along the ridge there fed
The sheep that ne'er a shepherd know
Save the shrill wind of morn,
Five "Oves Ammon" of the snow;
I saw the big ram lift his head,