 | New poems |  |
THE MOUNTAIN RAPTURE
Contentment hath its haunt in lowlands green,And ease of heart by mead and lisping rill;
But joy is on the rent and cloven hill,
And in the pass where strife of gods hath been;
Remembrance of an ecstasy terrene,
Old as the chasms; tradition of a thrill
Coëval with the paroxysm that still
Writhes on the countenance of the seared ravine.
O peaks that out of Earth's great passions rose,
Wearing the written rage, the graven pang,
The adamantine legend of her throes,
Ye are her lyric transports: thus she sang
With wild improvisation: thus, with clang
Of fiery heavings, throbbed into repose.
| New poems | |