SOME crumpled-rose-leaf mountains, from forty miles away,
Are luring me towards them, through all the blazing day,
Some crumpled-rose-leaf mountains, flecked here and there with blue,
They call to me and beckon as elfin hands might do.
And deeper pink beyond them a double summit towers,
Like Chronos grave and weary above the younger Powers.
Behind me the Sahara, before — those barren crags,
And with me the old hunter, illustrious in his rags.
When I am back in London, amongst the hoardings’ blaze,
And pictures of bad food and salt that men are paid to praise,
When, bright with lights that dim the stars, the foolish words are writ,
To Crumpled-rose-leaf Mountain my thoughts will fly from it.