Whiteface, New Hampshire

Having been asked to name some lasting thing, Symbol of permanence in a nightmare world Where the old ways of life endure no longer, And truth itself is twisted out of shape, I could do worse than indicate a mountain.

But mountains, you reply, are carved away By aerial bomb and high-explosive shell And honey-combed with tunnels by defenders.

My answer is to point and give you Whiteface, A mountain far from the clashing routes of empire, Guarding no inland sea, and garrisoned By diffident deer and solitary rabbits, Buffeted by no fiercer blast than wind, Attacked by volleys of hail instead of bullets, And shaken by no louder noise than thunder.

Now you contend that any tangible object Is no more real than it appears to be; And citing the cloud-shadows high on Whiteface, The ebb and flow of dark, the wash of light, You claim the peak itself is unsubstantial.

I say, although its shape may be obscured, Screened with the fog of cloud or whirling snow, Or merged in blackness on a moonless night,- So that the only place where you may find it Is in that part of sky that has no stars,— Although it mirrors weather, although it alters Pattern and color with the march of seasons, Although the wheeling sun in the blue sky Works hour by hour strange chemistry upon it, Yet the essential mountain stands unchanged, The focal point of vast concentric rings, The homing-place of ever-returning cycles.

We are aware, you argue, how the cells That form our bodies cleave and grow and die, Further we have been witnesses to the power And speed of human" thought; this being so, Only an utter fool can gravely look Now and again from the same vantage point At the same spot, and swear it never changes.

A fool I may be, as you have suggested, But I admit that I am comforted To know this mountain will survive your logic, Witness my youth struck down, my progress cancelled, Perhaps outlast concept of state and nation, So many centuries have failed to change it.

And yet, you cry, its name is born of change! Whiteface it is; I know it must have been Once like its neighbor wooded sheer to the summit. Until in some past time a bolt of lightning Kindled its cliff-like slopes with running flame

That roared across the stands of giant spruce. And violent change occurred, for, mark me well, The hollows where the peak was groined with streams, Where forest was most silent and trees tallest, And air most cool, became the hottest furnace. And when the fire died out, the powdery ash Was scattered by the wind, and the dried earth, Crumbled away from mighty walls of granite, Was washed to brook, and thence to river and valley. Thus in your symbol of a lasting truth I trace the flaw and demonstrate the error.

You may be right, no scroll exists to prove it, No legend backs you up, no man remembers The fire that burned the mountain to the bone. But were it true, I say that even the earth Bears in itself the seeds of its destruction, And while earth rolls, this mountain keeps its height And for mankind serves as sufficient symbol Of what is firm and changeless, tall and free.