And Still, be Still

One morning I was climbing true,
the ground ashining bright with dew,
and came upon a haughty sign, foretelling--
"Warning: Drop Ahead."

As I was sure ahead was wise,
that turning back would blind my eyes,
to the prospects of the end, heeding
not the warning sign.

The mountain steeped past all prediction,
and beat the snares of my conviction,
'til at the summit I stopped, fearing
air beneath my feet.

And still, be still,
staring down fatal cavity deep,
cold wind biting so I should weep, holding
fear and thrill at the end.

And still, be still,
lest phantom hand should push me over,
or the kiss of greeny lover, swaying
my feet to take a step.

And still, be still,
signs foretold ill,
repulse the thrill--
should we die or
descend the hill?