William White Poet I do not know?

On Walking the Giant Steps

We walked upon the blasted stone,
Carved by the sea's cruel grind with 
its fellow mate of crime, time.
In places smooth, and others
cut at angles unknown to geometry
brown to black and back to white
they seem to move
but only seem.

We came to walk but only climbed
while the sun shown half an hour high,
Whitman's New York does not compare
to the stressed sedimentary that 
has poked its head to the air and foam.

And ascending, they stood erect at
the truest angle known, half a half-turn.
Thundered by crests of the tide, meeting the blue,
or is it green or gray with a glint of reflecting red?
Constantly changing the answer is never true,
but in between, she's not caring to be defined.

But where the ocean eludes, the land is familar
with shawdows that formed many years ago.
And there we stand winded from climbing,
the wind brushing our face.
With flowing hair, we gain a tale for us alone.
Cyclopses once tred upon 
these stairs that are too grand for man.

Pound on!  
Do not stop your rise and fall!
You'll be here when we are gone
and re-grown as grass, tred upon and re-worn.
Others will come and see the scene and climb.
Climb on, climb on, Climb onto the steps!

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