I came too late to the hills: they were swept bare <br />Winters before I was born of song and story, <br />Of spell or speech with power of oracle or invocation, <br /> <br />The great ash long dead by a roofless house, its branches rotten, <br />The voice of the crows an inarticulate cry, <br />And from the wells and springs the holy water ebbed away. <br /> <br />A child I ran in the wind on a withered moor <br />Crying out after those great presences who were not there, <br />Long lost in the forgetfulness of the forgotten. <br /> <br />Only the archaic forms themselves could tell! <br />In sacred speech of hoodie on gray stone, or hawk in air, <br />Of Eden where the lonely rowan bends over the dark pool. <br /> <br />Yet I have glimpsed the bright mountain behind the mountain, <br />Knowledge under the leaves, tasted the bitter berries red, <br />Drunk water cold and clear from an inexhaustible hidden fountain.<br /><br />Kathleen Jessie Raine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-wilderness/
