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 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
HAWTHORNE IN BERKSHIRE
Mountains and valleys! dear ye are to me:Your streams wild-wandering, ever-tranquil lakes,
And forests that make murmur like the sea;
And this keen air that from the hurt soul takes
Its pain and languor.—Doubly dear ye are
For many a lofty memory that throws
A splendor on these hights.—'Neath yon low star,
That like a dewdrop melts in heaven's rose,
Dwelt once a starry spirit; there he smote
Life from the living hills; a little while
He rested from the raging of the world.
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Solace to his deep mind, it felt his smile—
Haunted, and melancholy, and remote.
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |