The Hesitant Heart

No, I shall never climb above the hill, But, wistful, pause halfway and take my fill Of wondering — Behind me lies the valley, hot and still, A roof-scarred thing.

If, like a lagging cloud with slow, white feet, I should surmount the hill, would I then greet The spray-wreathed sea? And would the eager winds blow keen and sweet Up, up to me?

Halfway, my craven heart shall ever bide. Content in hoping that the other side Shines on a silver shore, Yet fearful lest the high hills only hide More vale — and nothing more.