I went to the mountains of Never, which flourish their peaks for the moon,
white as the wrist of a lady, white as a fountain of may,
and the journey lasted forever, although it was over too soon,
for the mountains of Never are nearer, and farther, than away.
At the mountains I met a lady whose wrist was as white as the snows,
who sat with her white face lifted, blankened and blind, to the east;
I sat and watched her eyelids as a thousand moons arose,
and slowly the snows on her shoulders, flake by flake, increased.
Finally, over her face, there was only a hillock of white,
the white of the mountains of Never, that flourish their peaks for the moon.
So I turned to the hills and valleys that ranged beyond my sight
and sat with my white face lifted, still, and still, as stone.