Every rock seems to glow with life. Some lean back in
majestic repose; others, absolutely sheer, or nearly so,
for thousands of feet, advance their brows in thoughtful
attitudes beyond their companions, giving welcome to
storms and calms alike, seemingly conscious yet heedless
of everything going on about them, awful in stern majesty,
types of permanence, yet associated with beauty of the
frailest and most fleeting forms; their feet set in
pine-groves and gay emerald meadows, their brows in the
sky; bathed in light, bathed in floods of singing water
while snow-clouds, avalanches, and the winds shine and
surge and wreathe about them as the years go by, as if
into these mountain mansions Nature had taken pains to
gather her choicest treasures to draw her lovers into
close and confiding communion with her.