I have slumbered
In the dead of night
At the foot of the 
Strange formations

Of decrepit rock,
Weathered and crooked.

And oh, those winds,
That sweep through
The vast lowlands
Like stale cold breath,

Are hostile still;
Are cold and piercing.

Still, in dreams
I am carving an arc
Into the old stone;
Its image, just and queer,

And towering over 
The brooks and brush
Across those same, vast lowlands.