I'm taken with the archetypes,
The ancient molds and categories,
Unlearned in the ways yet leart,
From common plights and swarming dreams:
The glory in the open field and high country,
The shadow on the path smudging through darker trees,
The fierce hatred of raving beasts I fear to feed.

If I were accursed,
Perhaps I'd mourn the fall,
Hours down the mountain,
Futile struggles for them all,

Perhaps I'd have no tears to shed,
Eyes dried up and learning lost,
Dashed to dust I shan't become,
But Sysyphus, no, I am he not!

The bounding boulders instil glee,
For now my toil has carried far,
The objects of my strife away,
Down mountain tracks and country paths.

I see the fireflies in the dark,
They crown the shadowed hill,
And gently glow the horizon,
It stands a wall to watch their flight,
A city dressed in light.