The Secret Splendour

O Waste Me Not

O waste me not—a hill is in your hands!

Turn not to easier joys, the pale lowlands.

 Does your foot fear the steepness of this hill,

 The cry of its wayless wind, the sudden spill

Of its dangerous cataracts? Do you shy away,

Thinking that other feet have climbed it?... Nay,

One crest there is that never has been scaled

 To read its secret every passion has failed:

High above all it towers to the heavens' glow,

Its longing lines hidden by a hush of snow.

None knows its mystic call. Scorning each claim,

 This lonely peak off love bears but your name.

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