When fogs come crafty down the mountainside And quell the summer's green in mumming mists, Pulling light into their hill-killer blindness, Then all my night's in new bright dark espied 5 And all I had thought hid in nightmares dead Is come again unaccountable as cold, A softly omnipresent nameless dread That steals whatever warmth dawn had willed. And blind again at dawn in the soulless cold, 10 I see my rapture-nightmares in brightness rolled And confront the sourceless something of my soul: Hill on hill within, revealing valley, Valley, valley, does nothing to allay My sense that sense itself must this nothing sully.
From the collection "Supposing Roses"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.