The guardian stalking his eternal snowsWith backward tread and never any soundAfflicts the mind with horror more profoundThan caves and chasms among which he goes.
Below the snowline flourish greedy tribesWho run with dogs to hunt him as a beast,Then pass his pieces round in solemn feastAccompanied with triumph-song and gibes.
The unoffending flesh they take for meat,The hairless palms and cheeks, the white sad face,Are human, even found in such a place:Too like our own the still-reluctant feet.
