The mountain sat upon the plain
In his eternal chair,
His observation omnifold,
His inquest everywhere.
The seasons prayed around his knees,
Like children round a sire:
Grandfather of the days is he,
Of dawn the ancestor.
The Mountain, by Emily Dickinson, 1830-1886
But…maybe Emily had it all wrong. Maybe its “her” and “grandmother”. As in the Pachamama.