There still are rushing rivers in my dreams;
There still are grinding boulders in the streams;
      There still is mountain madness,
      Thund’ring down in reckless gladness
—Tho I’m safely in my bed in town, it seems.

There is still a shining world of ice and snow;
There still are steps to slog and miles to go;
      There still are fragile bridges,
      And windy fearsome ridges,
—Tho the city sounds about me all say “No…”

There is still a threat’ning avalanche to round;
There still are blinding fog banks, summit bound;
      I can find no safe belay
      Yet the suns ays “Do not stay”…
—Then I wake to find I’m home on level ground.

I’ll be toiling up sublime eternal heights,
I’ll be threading huge seracs by candle lights,
      I will pause where none may pass
      By some bottomless crevasse…
—I’ll be dreaming that I’m climbing… many nights.

by Clark E. Schurman