A New Metre: Poetry Archive

“. . . write it before them in a table, and note it in a book . . .” —Isaiah 30:8

Yet a Higher Hill

There’s yet a higher hill,
but dusk is quick to come;
and the burdens of the soul
are not the burdens of the sun.

Oh, soon I’ll cross this narrow ridge,
and one more higher road I’ll crest;
and when I look from hill to hill,
see one more taunt before I rest.

Beside the path, the tall sage grows.
There’s that and fennel in the wind;
but sweeter still the breeze must curl
about the peak unwalked, unbrimmed.

So on I plod, from sun to stars,
to follow still the unknown beasts
who only tread these hills; I’ll walk
until I feel the wind has ceased.

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