From beyond the airs of the icy crown,
He now looks down on his late Everest.
His soaring self landing, has overflow
Himavant to bide on a peace-clad crest.
Alive, he wore his proud peak in his heart.
And his ascent was no ploy but a cult
That burnt no myrrh to competitive sport,
But even to the avalanches knelt.
The telling tantrums of the winds he knew
That inspired him to stand every altitude.
Immaculate irony known to few,
For it flies above their plain attitude.
The tiger of the snows is a pilgrim
Shoving hills by its paw soft and grim.