The Secret Splendour

Facing you, hill.

My gaze is drawn

 From your indigo foot to your top of tawn

With a worshipping will.

I look and look until your stance

Suddenly weighs

 My lifted glance

 Deep down to some unnamable base

Of silent self within—

Whence to a haloing blue

My own soul masses up, out-moutaining you

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