Do you know the world’s white roof-tree — do you know that windy rift
Where the baffling mountain-eddies chop and change?
Do you know the long day’s patience, belly-down on frozen drift,
While the head of heads is feeding out of range?
It is there that I am going, where the boulders and the snow lie,
With a trusty, nimble tracker that I know.
I have sworn an oath, to keep it on the Horns of Ovis Poli,
And the Red Gods call me out and I must go!
by Rudyard Kipling 1897
There is much comfort in the high hills
And an easing of the heart.
We look upon them, and our nature fills
With loftier images from their life apart.
They set our feet on curves of freedom, bent
To snap the circles of our discontent.
Mountains are moods; of larger rhythm and line,
Moving between the external mode and mine.
Moments of thought, of which I too am part,
I lose in them my instant of brief ills,
There is a great easing of the heart,
And cumulance of comfort on high hills.
by Geoffrey Winthrop Young
Ye are bound for the mountains?
Ah! With you let me go,
Where you cold distant barrier
The east range of snow
Through its loose clouds lifts dimly
Its white peaks in air:
How deep is he stillness:
Ah! Would I were there.
Extract from The Parting, by Matthew Arnold
I have not lost the magic of long days,
I live them, dream them still
Still I am a master of the starry ways,
And freeman of the hills;
Shattered my glass, ere half the sands had run.
I hold the heights, I hold the heights, I won.
Mine still the hope that haileth me from each height
Mine the unresting flame.
With dreams I charmed each doing to delight;
I charm my rest the same.
Severed my skin, ere half the strands were spun
I keep the dreams, I keep the dreams I won.
What if I live no more those kingly days?
Their night sleeps with me still.
I dream my feet upon the starry ways;
My heart rests in the hill.
I may not grudge, the little left undone.
I hold the heights, I keep the dreams I won.
by Geoffrey Winthrop Young
The human lives are enjoying,
The birds and creatures are enjoying
The branches of trees are tossing,
The waters in rivers and rivulets flowing.
Moon, stars in sky are shining.
Some are kissing, some are hugging (into darkness of night.)
You and I are far away only waiting.
by P.K.K. August 13 1980
We stood breath less on the peak
In that eternity of mountains;
You now claim as your own.
Wrapped in a thousand years of wind;
We stood and listened
To the music of the earth
Below us rivers
Tuned by the sun to liquid gold,
And fields of corn
And sparkling cities.
Fair courts a-shimmer
With flaming blossom,
With humming birds
And dragon flies
And honeyed fruit as paliered on the wall.
The silver and gold have turned to water,
The once-rich fields be barren and waste;
Instead of garden-skeletal forest
And beggars at the city gate.
Now you astride the eternity of mountains
Wrapped in a thousand years of wind
You listen to the music
Can hear no longer
by Anna Ranasinghe 1970
Great things are done when man and mountains meet.
This is not done by jostling in the street.
An extract from ‘The Poetical Works‘, by William Blake
Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there’s nothing else to gaze on,
Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore,
Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon
Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar?
Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it,
Searched the Vastness for something you have lost?
Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God’s sake go and do it;
Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.
by Robert Service
Though hundreds of men have scaled
up it’s back,
It forever retains it’s pristine beauty
Clad in its eternal mantle of pure
Stands that lofty citadel of ice and
A place where the very God’s dwell!
On reaching it’s summit up high,
It is not the peak we only conquer
But we conquer ourselves!
Displaying indomitable will and
To rise above all earthly fetters!
To aspire and to reach,
Where only the brave, the courageous,
and the stout-hearted,
Do dare, and forever excel!
by Raj Nandy
New Delhi 16 Mar 08
A diamond on the crown of Himalaya, the Himalayan kingdom of Bhutan
A piece of heaven on the earth, the beauty of which will fail any poet’s imagination.
A country that represents genuine peace and tranquility
A country that can teach what is meant by natural beauty.
Equally nice are the people who live in this beautiful place
People who represent humility, dignity and grace.
The country is a spectacular blending of modernity and tradition
Where modern technology happily co-exists with age-old culture and convention.
Making regular visits to this land has become my favourite passion
I love you, The Sandalwood Ornamented Kingdom of Bhutan.
by Raja Basu
Majestic you are,
Awe inspiring is your peaks,
Touching the sky,
Meandering through your rocky terrain is
Many a Holy River,
Causing the rise of ancient civilizations,
Beauty manifested in magnanimity;
Dotted with Shrines,
Where Silence is worshiped,
And Sanctity is preserved.
by Debabani Chandra
There’s a one-eyed yellow idol
To the north of Kathmandu;
There’s a little marble cross below the town;
And a brokenhearted woman
Tends the grave of ‘Mad’ Carew,
While the yellow god for ever gazes down.
Extract from The Green Eye of the Yellow God, by J. Milton Hayes
Go. While the day-star shineth,
Go. While the heart is light,
Go, ere thy strength declineth,
While every sense is bright.
Let us probe the silent places
Let us see what luck betide us.
Let us journey to a lonely land I know
There’s a whisper on the night wind,
And the wild is calling calling …. Let us go.
Compiled by Eileen Hewson FRGS from an old Moravian hymn and ‘The Call of the Wild’, by Robert Service
I laid him down in the cold, cold earth,
And fashioned his humble grave.
Far, far from his friends and the place of his birth.
For, far o’er the distant wave.
A few short texts o’er the grave I said
A few brief words of anguish
Words such as came when all I hope is fled.
Had the heart’s affections languish.
Slowly-alone-o’er the mountains steep
My wear way I hurried
But left my affections, warm and deep,
In the grave where my friend is buried.
by Robert N. Cust
If in India I should die
Far from Britain’s islands,
In a churchyard I would lie
Up among the high lands.
I should hear, though I were dead,
Tinkling of the fountains;
Watch the snows flush rosy red
On the morning mountains.
And when autumn’s twilight gloom
Veiled the woodland alleys
Gentle mists would wrap my time
Stealing over the valleys
And I should shrink to know
Winter there had found me
Pleased to feel the English snow
Lightly falling round me
by Trego Webb, ‘Indian Lyrics.’