The Cragsman
Geoffrey Winthrop Young
In this short span
between my finger tips on the smooth edge
and these tense feet cramped to the crystal ledge
I hold the like of man.
Consciously I embrace
arched from the mountain rock on which I stand
to the firm limit of my lifted hand
the front of time and space:-
For what is there in all the world for me
but what I know and see?
And what remains of all I see and know,
if I let go?
With this full breath
bracing my sinews as I upward move
boldly reliant to the rift above
I measure life from death.
With each strong thrust
I feel all motion and all vital force
borne on my strength and hazarding their course
in my self-trust:-
There is no movement of what kind it be
but has it's source in me;
and should these muscles falter to release
motion itself must cease.
In these two eyes
that search the splendour of the earth, and seek
the sombre mysteries of plain and peak,
all vision wakes and dies.
With these my ears
that listen for the sound of lakes asleep
and love the larger rumour from the deep,
the eternal hears:-
For all of beauty that this life can give
lives only while I live;
and with the light my hurried vision lends
all beauty ends.
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