Robinson Jeffers

Mountain Pines

In scornful upright loneliness they stand,
    Counting themselves no kin of anything
    Whether of earth or sky. Their gnarled roots cling
Like wasted fingers of a clutching hand
In the grim rock. A silent spectral band
    They watch the old sky, but hold no communing
    With aught. Only, when some lone eagle’s wing
Flaps past above their grey and desolate land,
Or when the wind pants up a rough-hewn glen,
    Bending them down as with an age of thought,
    Or when, ‘mid flying clouds that can not dull
Her constant light, the moon shines silver, then
    They find a soul, and their dim moan is wrought
    Into a singing sad and beautiful.
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