Last evening the moon rose above this rock Impure upon a world unpurged. The man and his companion stopped To rest before the heroic height. Coldly the wind fell upon them In many majesties of sound: They that had left the flame-freaked sun To seek a sun of fuller fire. Instead there was this tufted rock Ma**ively rising high and bare Beyond all trees, the ridges thrown Like giant arms among the clouds. There was neither voice nor crested image, No chorister, nor priest. There was Only the great height of the rock And the two of them standing still to rest. There was the cold wind and the sound It made, away from the muck of the land That they had left, heroic sound Joyous and jubilant and sure.