The mountain face looks blankly on, as we
Toil hard to rise at slow and thick-pulsed pace;
Pick in, then heave, short step, we can foresee
Our sluggish course, the rear of life’s quick race.
Sharp plunging tug. Hearts stop. We look, aghast,
To see dark, dangling, thrashing shape that flails
Like rags caught up aloft in swift, sharp gust,
Then sagging, doldrums sapping out the sails.
Wind whips thin keening sobs to sickened hearts
That strain hard to believe we can prevail;
Our coaxing, wheedling prayers bounce off ramparts
Indifferent to where we win or fail.
Then comes the choice. To look chance in the face,
Or cut the rope; another fate embrace?