The Goat Paths

The crooked paths go every way
  Upon the hill — they wind about
Through the heather in and out
    Of the quiet sunniness.
And there the goats, day after day,
    Stray in sunny quietness,
Cropping here and cropping there,
    As they pause and turn and pass,
Now a bit of heather spray,
    Now a mouthful of the grass.

In the deeper sunniness,
    In the place where nothing stirs,
Quietly in quietness,
    In the quiet of the furze,
For a time they come and lie
    Staring on the roving sky.

If you approach they run away,
    They leap and stare, away they bound,
With a sudden angry sound,
    To the sunny quietude;
Crouching down where nothing stirs
    In the silence of the furze,
Couching down again to brood
    In the sunny solitude.

If I were as wise as they
    I would stray apart and brood,
I would beat a hidden way
    Through he quiet heather spray
To a sunny solitude;
    And should you come I'd run away,
I would make an angry sound,
    I would stare and turn and bound
To the deeper quietude,
    To the place where nothing stirs
    In the silence of the furze.

In that airy quietness
    I would think as long as they;
Through the quiet sunniness
    I would stray away to brood
By a hidden beaten way
    In a sunny solitude.

I would think until I found
    Something I can never find,
Something lying on the ground,
    In the bottom of my mind.