Love is a quiet hill that stands too high
For any valley eyes to estimate,
The violet peak belong to stars and sky,
And Time against those slopes records no date.
The storm that ravages the lower way,
The cloudy snows that dim the valley view
Measure their transient armies for a day,
Scar not the curve that breasts the evening blue.
Having climbed now to
breath this upper air,
And set my heart upon the air-borne stone,
I have no need of downward way to fare
Back to the lesser land so long my own.
Never, oh never,
shall I walk again
Breathing the dusty darkness of the plain.
From The Book of Stillmeadow |