Behold, the lines of hills and mountains, far, far away,
Everywhere the white-topt mountains show in the distance, far glimpses of a hundred peaks gigantic,
Mountainous chains and peaks in every variety of perspective, every hue of vista, fringe the view in nearer, or middle, or far-dim distance, or fade on the horizon,
Reckless heaven-ambitious peaks, constantly in sight in the apparently near distance.

What are the mountains call’d that rise so high in the mists?
These chains spread away in every direction, specially north and south, thousands and thousands  farther—
Titanic necklaces, hundreds, it seems thousands, interminable necklaces of them, stretching north and south—
Not themselves alone, for they typify stretches and areas of half the globe,
Are, in fact, the vertebrae or back-bone of our hemisphere.

Through the canyon we fly,
Mountains not only each side, but seemingly, till we get near, right in front of us,
The terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt, in places rising high,
Glaciers, torrents, valleys, the great sierras and the high plateaus,
The chasm, the gorge, the crystal mountain stream, strata of mountains, soils, giant trees,
The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes—
This amplitude repeated scores, hundreds of miles.

Dominating all, those towering rocks, rocks, rocks,
Granite boulders and cliffs, long stretches of straight-upright palisades,
Sometimes a thousand, sometimes two or three thousand feet high.
Here start up in every conceivable presentation of shape, these tumbled rock-piles grim and red, these non-utilitarian piles in grotesque shapes,
Natural spires, minarets, castellated perches far aloft coping the skies.

Lands bathed in sweeter, rarer, healthier air,
Perhaps the rarest sight of all is in atmospheric hues.
These mountains seem to afford new lights and shades,
Near one’s eye ranges an infinite variety,
Sunshine upon the mountains, bathed in transparent browns, faint reds and grays,
The yellow granite in the sunshine, then rhinoceros color—then gamboge and tinted chromos.

High up, the bare whitey-brown, above timber line, mountain tops innumerable, bathed in delicate vari-colors, tops and slopes hazed more or less slightly in that blue-gray, for over a hundred miles. Now and then huge masses pois’d, and mixing with the clouds, with only their outlines, hazed in misty lilac—mountains misty-topt, draped in their violet haze, a little veiled with blue vapor. Everywhere the aerial gradations and sky-effects inimitable; nowhere else such perspectives, such transparent lilacs and grays.

I have seen the mountains just before sunset,
It was only ten minutes, but I shall never forget it.
Veil’d slightly, but still clear and very grand—their cones, colors, sides, distinct against the sky,
The broad handling and absolute uncrampedness—the fantastic forms,
The most spiritual show of objective nature I ever beheld, or ever thought possible.

Alone far in the wilds and mountains—all the wonders, beauty, savage power of the scene—new senses, new joys, seem develop’d.
I should like to poke about amongst the antiquities of Europe for two years—think I should appreciate the treasures there—that they are for me. But why talk of going to Europe, of visiting the ruins of feudal castles, or Coliseum remains, or kings’ palaces—when you can come here, the grandest scenery in the world!

A typical Rocky Mountain cañon tallies, perhaps expresses, certainly wakes, those grandest and subtlest element-emotions in the human soul, that all the marble temples and sculptures, all paintings, poems, reminiscences, or even music, probably never can—these gorges, this naked freshness, entire absence of art, emanating a beauty, terror, power, more than Dante or Angelo ever knew.

Most of all, or far or near, the wind of the mountains—nature’s mighty whisper;
Through the high tree-tops, or through low bushes,
Down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains steep,
The low hum of living breezes, laving one’s face and hands so gently,
Strong hum of forest tree-tops—how sibilant.
The winds’ free orchestra steadily keeps up its hoarse, soothing music,
A monotone, giving many varieties, or swift or slow, or dense or delicate,
Yet always a firm, sane, cheery expression.

Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me,
I think I have blown with you, you winds—
O secret of you strong mountains of my land,
My soul prepared in the mountains absorbs your immortal strong nutriment,
Scaling mountains, pulling myself cautiously up, holding on by low scragged limbs,
I match my spirit against yours, and become the master myself.

Spirit that form’d this scene, I know thee, savage spirit,
We have communed together, my chants have remember’d thee,
I have found the law of my own poems amid all this grim yet joyous elemental abandon.
Here are my poems, not finished temples, not graceful architecture,
But great naturalness and rugged power—
This plenitude of material, untrammel’d play of primitive nature,
These formless wild arrays, for reasons of their own,
Mine too such wild arrays, for reasons of their own.

NEXT: TREES

The texts in this anthology should NOT be cited as direct quotations from Whitman. If you want to quote from this site for something you are writing or posting, please read this first (click here).