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Updated: Jan 15, 2022

Written by Ian Smith


Food for thought while reading: I wrote this poem for my brother who is an avid rock climber and lover of the marvelous cliffs of Colorado and the like.


What is man but a series of impressions?

His heart chiseled about by the beauty encompassing him.

Sight of vast crags, palisades, and sierras;

Melody of gentle air and fowl;

Aura of piney expanse.

But to feel

To perceive, to apperceive.

To caress, to clasp, to clutch.

To have beauty vulnerable within one’s very grasp.

Is not this truly why I ascend?

The comeliness of nature entreating, sculpting my heart?

My nature corresponding to divine its summons?

I am but nothing in its grandeur,

Yet I am allowed to mount such shapeliness?

Oh, what is feeling but ascent!

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