The Western Invention of Lyrical Nature Poem by Gregory Orr

And there's Petrarch, our first
mountain climber, stumbling up
the slopes of Mt. Ventoux
with his shepherd guide
and a bottle of wine—one more
trapped man of the Renaissance
looking for some way out
that doesn't lead to God.
It's almost dusk when he reaches
the summit. He's never gazed
so far, never know there was so large
a vista. He's standing there
for all of us, frightened but brave.
biting his lip, he tastes the sea.