The Climber

Striving, breast to the wind, on the desolate hill,
This, do I think, is the end and summit of life—
Ever to strive with the fateful implacable will
Of the Invisible: strive, nor lose heart in the strife.

Blow, wind of heaven! buffeting, cleansing and strong—
Steep, and more steep, O hill, do you rise in your might!
Never the blast nor the steepness shall stagger me long,
Turn me from quest of the uttermost, starriest height.

Blow, wind, O blow! be your strength as the strength of a giant
Yet face 1 you; nor all your strength wielded and thrown
At my body shall batter it back: for ever defiant
I make the ascent, till I stand on the summit alone.

J.C.B.