Last year, at the autumn fade
Of edelweisses, I thought
Of my many brothers
Who'd left there down in the vale.
This year, while hearing
The spring warble of larks,
I think of my quit from
The highland residing.
Rapid waters of mountain brooks
Run through a thousand lumps
In my throat; dark clouds cover
All the quarters of my viewing. . .
What a pity! In this life
Of a hundred or so years,
It grieves me deeply to think
Of the peaks where
I haven't been to them yet.
Share
Print
Save
Follow
Always,
Deborah