The mountain is under the sky, and the gray scarps there rise
Past paths where on their appointed occasions men
will
pass.
Past grain-patch, last apron of vineyard, last terrace of olive,
Past chestnut, past cork-grove, where the last carts can go,
Past camp of the charcoal-maker, where coals glow in the black hive,
The gray scarps rise up. Above them is that place I know.
The pines are there, they are large, a deep recess,
Shelf above scarp, enclave of rock, a glade
Benched and withdrawn in the mountain-mass, under the peak's
duress.
We came there--your mother and I- and rested in that severe shade.
Pine-blackness mist-tangled, the peak black above: the glade gives
On the empty threshold of
air,
the hawk-hung delight
Of distance unspooled and bright space spilled- ab, the heart thrives!
We stood in that shade and saw sea and land lift in far light.
Now the butterflies dance, time-tattered and disarrayed.
I watch them. I think how above that scarp's far sunlit wall
Mist threads in silence the darkness of boughs, and in that shade
Condensed moisture gathers at a needle-tip. It glitters, will fall.
I cannot interpret for you this collocation
Of memories. You will live your own life, and contrive
The language of your own heart, but let that conversation,
In the last analysis, be always of whatever truth you would live.
For fire flames but in the heart of a colder fire.
All voice is but echo to a soundless voice.
Height is not deprivation of valley, nor defect of desire,
But may define, if you are fortunate, that joy in which all your joys
should rejoice.
