One day I found a hole
in the gray granite of a mountain
near where I lived.
Putting my eye to it,
I saw, as if close, what was far:
a beautiful woman in a turquoise gown
playing a lute
(or was it a mandolin?)
beside a shaded brook.
What was this?

She could not be within the mountain—
the sun shone brightly on her hair.
She could not be on the other side of the mountain,
so many miles away—here she was!
I could make out the indisputable shape
of her fingernails.
Seeing her, I loved her.
I tried calling out to her,
but she played on, unhearing.
I watched her for an hour, enrapt,
then went to find a friend
to show him this marvel,
but though we searched and searched
(and I searched alone for many months after)
we could not find that thumb-width hole
in the mountain again.  It was gone.

Fifty years ago now,
and though I've forgotten most else of my life,
that, that sight, I have not.
It's not the sweet music that I remember,
but the memory of hearing it,
the recollection of how I felt in that moment,
my young face pressed against the cold, rough rock.