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

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