Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/318

290 And ten thousand years after

We read it,—with laughter

And loyal acclaim,—

His ancestry, name,

The work he was doing,

The place whence he came,

And the journey pursuing.

This giant of eld!

See his path," said John Muir,

Here it held

Northwest to southeast;

Slow and sure,

Like a king at a feast

Eating down through the list;

Inch by inch, crunch by crunch;

Yonder hollow his lunch,

Of this valley—one gobble,

Then he supped light on Cobble!

This big boulder, he bore it;

Through eons uncounted

That range there he mounted,

He tore it.

Rock-grinding; strata rending;

Always pausing; never ending;

O what a grand rumpus!

Now, down on your knees,"

Said Muir, "an you please,

And out with your compass!"

(By the way—'t was Thoreau's

As Muir well knows)

And then, in a trice,

Where the quartz glistens white,

Smooth as ice,

In the clear, slanting light