The holy lamps of Evening shine
Sheer in the West the air is still
As I sit with this heart of mine
At the foot of Parnassus' hill.
Through my life's day I've reached to this
To see where the immortals trod,
Winding up the dark height, I wis,
Till they came on the light of God.
Ah! I, a pilgrim with tired feet,
Have touched the verge of their renown,
As I look up on Homer's seat
And know the bards may not come down.
Still on those peaks, as powers apart,
They breathe the air now breathed by me,
For each has climbed the human heart
The deathless hill of Poesy!
The Hill.
written byRobert Crawford
© Robert Crawford