The Climb

From the plain it seemed an easy mile at most
Over snowgrass, dry river-bed, and bare
Sun-tortured scree, up to the snowline where
One can see nearly from island coast to coast.
And so we climbed and sweated for that boast
A good five hours—till now, we stand and stare.
Sheep crawl like maggots on the bluff down there
And the far ocean glimmers like a ghost.

Inhuman purity! The sun has cast
His net about us, gripping heart and head.
Between wild snows and firmament more vast
A hawk hangs lonely, shadow of grave dread.
Only the dizzy blood beats thick and fast
In swollen veins, to prove we are not dead.