Dylan Thomas, Gyps.
Do not whip scared at that Indian Creek,
Old cams should catch and grip at climber's flight;
Gyps, gyps against the returning work week.
Though wise men at rope's end let loose high
Poetry
The Chasm of Doom
The stars traced long arcs
The coyotes howled in the dark
And the spirits came out to play.
Between great granite stones
Haunted by the wind's quiet moans
Went we, somewhere ne'er touched