HIGH PLACES
My heart turns to the mountains
That I so long have missed,
The blue hills on the sky-line,
Bird-haunted, sunshine-kissed;
For in my soul I see them,
The gullies golden-green
Where from the hop-vine tangle
The bellbird chimes unseen.
And higher yet and higher
I want to climb, until
The trees give place to bushes
Wind-shorn and struggling still
For foothold on the corries
Steep-sloping to the sky,
I want to reach the summit
And watch the clouds race by;—
The clouds that go so quickly
The whole hill seems to lean;—
I want to breathe in deeply
The cool air, thin and keen.
My heart turns to high places
All men have long adored—
The proud and lonely mountains,
The Altars of the Lord.
THE CLOSED DOOR
As we crossed Alcántara
With the Tagus falling,
I was ’ware there came a voice
At my shoulder calling.
As we climbed the steep red path—
Red as smouldering ember—
“You, you know this well,” it said,
“Do you not remember?”
Up the narrow cobbled streets
Still it followed after,
Whispering deeds that we had shared
With a fierce low laughter.
“Here you stabbed him and he fell
With his sword a-clatter—
Life for life—you paid your debt—
That was no great matter.”
Through the Gate that Wamba built
Still the voice pursuing
Softly called, “We know it all,
All that you are doing.
Every stone you’re treading now
You have known aforetime,
You have seen these grim red walls
In the stress of wartime.
“You remember? Down this lane
You would often swagger
With your comrades of the mask,
Cloak and sword and dagger.
At that window high she stood,
Some dear dead Dolores....
You’ve forgotten—and so soon?
—There are other stories....”