I climbed to the lighted cabin on the crest,
And I saw Goethe.
At his side a lamp
On a rude table, out of tumbled waves
Of manuscript, like an elfin lighthouse rose.
His bed, a forester’s couch for summer nights,
Was thrust into a corner. Rows of books
Lined the rough walls.
A letter was in his hand
From Craigenputtock; and while he looked at it,