Where I come from, the mountains ring
With the sound of falling water.
Mile-high clouds shroud their naked peaks
Like dreams that linger even after sleep.
In our prime, we scaled their wooded slopes
To look down upon the heavens.
The altitude made us feel like gods,
For such is the arrogance of youth.
But alas mere mortals that we were,
In time came down to Earth once more,
And like most creatures of good sense
Are content to winter on the valley floor.
The Yankee Poet 