Classic Poem

I admire the half-moon
when — remote Jungfrau,
slopes lost in shadow
of blue afternoon —
the white rim starts to shine:

There is our highest hill,
summit to tantalize
eagle and edelweiss,
so high it couldn't still
be socketed, so fell

into the stars. Whereat
we mountaineers are called
lunatic, moon-galled,
whose cloudy ropes got caught
upon the crown of it.











By permission of the author.