Spirits high, in our lonely surroundings We climbed the stark hill. At last! On our own! After London! Stealthily Slow clouds patrolled the blue sky. Around us rose mountains, Slate-armored, fir-pelted Ancient old Cambrian mountains, The scatter of parasite sheep On their bastions Seeming uncannily still. Deep quietness; Who listened? A bush held its breath as we passed Lest we guess It a spy. Who were we? Where from? In the hush we climbed on, With the droll realization that now Whenever we moved from our home The intelligent eye Of some farmer (and probably several) Would detect a slight stir On the upstanding landscape And watch!