Only the poets feel the pain,
of climbing up the mountains;
Where thoughts and visions are pursued,
and run down the hills like fountains.

Yet often running far too fast,
and under a mystical spell;
At first it seems like heaven's arrived,
then we're burning as if in hell.

Opening our eyes to what's around,
the solemnity and beauty engaged;
Just as the theatrical moment begins,
to set the long sought-for stage.

The words sublime yet subtle too,
in notions of earthly pleasures;
But still the poet seeks the heart,
to burst out loud with treasures.