High on the cold mountain road.
The path a little paler than the darkness
I hunt a poem through the night
Far far below the vast run of the curving sea
And on my right hand the tight-drawn mountains touch
remote Orion and the Pleiades.
But now I walk on thyme: thyme.
Thyme and the scent of grass
My thoughts drop from me like a shroud:
My heart is importuned by joy.