Mountains Old

I think of gray mountains old 

And snows that hide their rising peaks.

I think of men,

Bent,

Hooded and cloaked,

Wind round those rising peaks.

In deep cloven caves they rest,

And over tepid ground they pass.

They sunder,

And wander,

And where they end no one can tell.

Only their bones collect mountain dust 

And mountain dust collects their bones. 

I hate to think of wandering men and days old,

When my feet are young and my breath is hot,

And I have no place in all the world.