OUT of this oubliette between the mountains
five valleys go, five passes
like gates;
three
of them black in shadow, two of them bright
with distant
sunshine;
and
sunshine fills one high valley bed,
green grass shining, and little white
houses
like quartz
crystals,
little,
but distinct a way off.
Why don’t I go?
Why do I crawl about this pot, this oubliette,
stupidly?
Why
don’t I go?
But where?
If I come to a pine-wood, I can’t
say
Now I am
arrived!
What are
so many straight trees to me!
STERZING