Towards, my love, those disappearing hills
whose clouds are combative: for there
swan-feathered ladies are
in crying water and the sway of gulls.
The ways of death are hooked and steep;
here the Egyptian mothers weep 
to see winged Herods in their sleep:
but we must climb the waterfalls
towards those disappearing hills.

Forget, my love, those shining spiders'-coils;
quiet the swift worm of the blood:
hard are the runner and the road,
the terrible jointed height where lightning falls.
The black dog in the thunderstone
strips the flesh from star and moon
with teeth fast in living bone:
but a blue-handed beacon calls
towards those disappearing hills.

Forget your English roofs and watery meadows;
and streets wherein the tears of Blake
blossom out of stones, and speak;
and the cold arms clutching from the shadows:
though our separate hearts must climb
moving-downward-stairs of time,
we have been arrows in a dream
of disappearing mountains where 
the swan-feathered ladies are.