Is there a long hill
Where you would be,
That moves down softly,
Green and gold, to the sea?

Is there a mountain,
Wedded to time,
And ridged with crystal
That you would climb?

Or have you longing
Undefined,
Fretting like a shadow
Your surface of mind,

That feeds on darkness
And the pain of your breast,
And shoes your feet
With dumb unrest?