The Long Hill

A poem by Sara Teasdale

I must have passed the crest a while ago
And now I am going down,
Strange to have crossed the crest and not to know,
But the brambles were always catching the hem of my gown.

All the morning I thought how proud I should be
To stand there straight as a queen,
Wrapped in the wind and the sun with the world under me,
But the air was dull, there was little I could have seen.

It was nearly level along the beaten track
And the brambles caught in my gown,
But it's no use now to think of turning back,
The rest of the way will be only going down.

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