Classic Poem

The road goes down from the mountains to the smoky valleys of men:
It goes down a great slope along a precipice:
And there beyond stretches the world.

Down the road the youth came swinging radiantly,
A hunter from the hills:
He was good health among the healthy heights,
He came toward the valley like good news.

But he paused precipitately:
For in the western skies hung a vision and a mirage:
Hung as a cloud hangs, a golden city,
With all her towers and domes and climbing roofs:
A vision like gold sunrise,
Like the dazzle when one looks into the sun …

His heart failed …
“I conquer that?” he asked …
“Who am I, that this task is mine?
My place is in the pine-sweet house of my Mother,
And in the simple health of the mountains
And the simple days.”