Night on the Mountain

The fog has risen from the sea and crowned The dark, untrodden summits of the coast, Where roams a voice, in canyons uttermost, From midnight waters vibrant and profound. High on each granite altar dies the sound, Deep as the trampling of an armored host, Lone as the lamentation of a ghost, Sad as the diapason of the drowned. The mountain seems no more a soulless thing, But rather as a shape of ancient fear, In darkness and the winds of Chaos born Amid the lordless heavens' thundering- A Presence crouched, enormous and austere, Before whose feet the mighty waters mourn.