I climb above the fog, yet do not know
The reason for this effort. Can it be
The pleasure when I draw up and see
How sunlight blankets rolling grassland with no
Dark tree to stitch it to the blue. I slow
And see the seam of the horizon smooth
Against a bowl of blue, the only truth
And world my distant forebears long ago
Could love. They hoped beyond that line
There await the lovely muscled herds, the streams
Of fish, the comfort of a hunt: in short, the Place
Where limbs feel happy aches. God, rushing by when time
Runs down, should see I have romantic dreams
And fondly scoop me up from this high place —
The cycling dawdler with the dreamy face.