In Moab on a mountain once,
I took my stave in hand,
And gazed out wistfully upon
The hoped-for promised land.
Then bade me Death my eyes to close,
And drew me far away,
Behind a rampant stallion,
In heaven’s formless dray.
When here I stopped, in bonds of flesh,
I bound myself to earth,
Again (who have with Pharaoh walked)
To know the dread of birth.
And have I come thus, far in time,
My bootless rod in hand,
To sigh upon a mountain-top,
For you, my Promised Land?
Who wrote that?
Great poem.
Did you write the poem, Mr. Ramsbotham? I cannot find references to it elsewhere.
Hi,
Your poem reminded me of an old neighbor of mine.
She was an Imigrant from Russia. Tashkent.
She was once lamenting that in Russia she was not Russian, but a 'Jew'. And then, after coming to Brooklyn, NY she again felt outside of the affluent jewish community: She said here I'm not a 'Jew', but a 'Russian'.