THE BLIND SUMMIT

By William Watson

So mounts the child of ages of desire,

Man, up the steeps of Thought; and would behold

Yet purer peaks, touched with unearthlier fire,

In sudden prospect virginally new;

But on the lone last height he sighs: “‘ Tis cold,

And clouds shut out the view.”

Ah, doom of mortals! Vexed with phantoms old,

Old phantoms that waylay us and pursue,—

Weary of dreams,— we think to see unfold

The eternal landscape of the Real and True;

And on our Pisgah can but write: “‘ Tis cold,

And clouds shut out the view.”