By George Sterling

The bastions, lonely as the central sea,
    And stained as with the light of dying suns,
    That tower where the Colorado runs,—
The giant domes of the Yosemite,—
The vast Himalayas, graven by the law
    That was a chisel in the hands of Time—
    Seek not in those the dreadful and sublime:
There lie, far off, regions of deeper awe.

It is a land of many an altar-height,
    And each shall mount his own, in that cold hour
        That brings the dark, the victim and the chain,
When the gaunt vultures, falling from the night,
    Find, as of old, Prometheus in their power—
        Fettered to icy pinnacles of pain.

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