Classic Poem

On his back a fifty-pound load,
spine bent double,
six miles straight up in the January snow,
naked bones,
two rupees worth of life in his body
to challenge the mountain.

Cloth cap black with sweat
and worn to shreds,
body swarming with lice and fleas,
mind dulled.
It's like sulphur, but how tough
this human frame!

The bird of his heart panting,
sweat and breath.
On the cliff his hut, kids trembling:
hungry griefs!
No greens to eat; his wife combs the woods
for weeds and nettles.

Beneath the snow peak
of this more than human hero's mountain,
conquering nature, with a hoard of pearls —
the sweat on his forehead —
and above only the lid of night
bright with stars:
in this night he is rich with sleep.