The Man upon the Mountaintop

Oft, when I have sat alone

Looking at the word around,

I have been gladdened in my heart

By isolated, high-viewed insight,

Or perspective mine alone,

Unfettered by the wish of others,

Free of the loving, chocking band,

That holds together, and holds back,

That binds the soul and shuts the mind,

And yet also, I have felt,

In sudden flash or creeping growth,

How high upon my mountaintop,

Loneliness makes its abode.

Clearly I can see the world,

Yet far away, always, it seems,

In high halls blows the coldest wind,

and silence is the loudest sound.

Yet I cannot leave this highest fort,

I am too long here, shut inside,

Though all about it green might grow,

Yet I fear to step outside.

How difficult it seems to me,

To leave the peaks where none can reach,

Where nothing changes, all is still,

And yet content I may  there be.

A fear has gripped me, looking down,

And I cannot tear down the peak,

For down there, upon the plain,

How vulnerable I would be.

How could I walk there, in green lands,

Where anyone might see me whole,

And hate me, love me, or the worst:

Not see me standing there at all.

Better then is the high mountain,

Where none can see me, though I see them,

Where none will notice the small figure,

Behind the window, above the glen.