Classic Poem

When every spur of whin's a spike of ice,
Each grassy tussock bristling blades of steel,
Each withered bracken-frond a rare device
Of sparkling crystal crackling under-heel
With brittle tinkling, then it is the time,
O Love, to leave the chilly hearth and climb
The sunlit Beacon, where the live airs blow
Along the clean wave-edge of drifted snow.

Love, let us go
And scale the ridge: I long to see you there
Breathing the eager air
With cheeks aglow,
The sunlight on your hair:
O Love, I long to share
With you a moment the white ecstasy
And crystal silence of eternity.