There still are rushing rivers in my dreams;
There still are grinding boulders in the streams;
There still is mountain madness,
Thund’ring down in reckless gladness
—Tho I’m safely in my bed in town, it seems.
There is still a shining world of ice and snow;
There still are steps to slog and miles to go;
There still are fragile bridges,
And windy fearsome ridges,
—Tho the city sounds about me all say “No…”
There is still a threat’ning avalanche to round;
There still are blinding fog banks, summit bound;
I can find no safe belay
Yet the suns ays “Do not stay”…
—Then I wake to find I’m home on level ground.
I’ll be toiling up sublime eternal heights,
I’ll be threading huge seracs by candle lights,
I will pause where none may pass
By some bottomless crevasse…
—I’ll be dreaming that I’m climbing… many nights.
by Clark E. Schurman