Failed, wind-like and remote.
Panting, I swung from stem to jutting stem
Up the wet crag, and, ever as I clomb,
I called, ’twixt tears and pain, and offered them
Bribe of my last year’s harvest, honeycomb,
Beechnuts, and hazel; yet there came no sign
Save Echo’s, answering that call of mine,
“O friends, come home! Come home!”
Oh, not among the cliffs or on the height!