Routine-galled, dulled, by many years cumbered,
slipping halter holiday-wise,
away into the west land.
So much cool green to see; such deep silence
to hear; clear silence; bright waters;
such deep-green of tree-shade; such chiming
of gem necklaces - birds shaking,
concealed, the leaves with crystal songs.
To hear, at evening, young mountaineers,
come down godlike from sunlit pinnacles,
tell of prowess and peril, and, taken from pocket,
show faceted crystals from high rock-surfaces.
To muse: All this, it has been like to ...