I know a mount, the gracious Sun perceives
First when he visits, last, too, when he leaves
The world; and, vainly favored, it repays
The day-long glory of his steadfast gaze
By no change of its large calm front of snow.
ROBERT BROWNING: _Rudel To The Lady of Tripoli._
And to me
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum
Of human cities torture.
BYRON: _Ch. Harold,_ Canto iii., St. 72.