The
Mountains are Calling and I Must Go—Muir
They
beckon to me
Out
of the fog and the smog
And
the dew and the damp
They
call out and I must go
Following
out of the foothills
And
up the slopes
Up
Up
Up
I
must go
Why
do they call?
Why
does the mountain need a climber, a runner, a pilgrim, a poet?
I
don’t know, but she does
She
needs her neck scratched, the spine, the place we call horizon---there, far off
and on it must be trod upon.
She
calls and I must go
