Misery

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!