 | Poems |  |
121
WRITTEN AMONG THE LENOX HILLS.
Dear friend, in this fair atmosphere again,Far from the noisy echoes of the main,
Amid the world-old mountains, and the hills
From whose strange grouping a fine power distils
The soothing and the calm, I seek repose,
The city's noise forgot, and hard, stern woes.
As thou once said'st, the rarest sons of earth
Have in the dust of cities shown their worth,
Where long collision with the human curse
Has of great glory been the frequent nurse,
And only those who in sad cities dwell,
Are of the green trees fully sensible.
To them the silver bells of tinkling streams
Seem brighter than an angel's laugh in dreams,
122
The future's seed, companions when we die.
The dawn, full noon, evening, and solemn night
Weave all around their robes of changing light,
And in the mighty forests, day's whole time
Is shadowed with a portraiture sublime;
In the dark caves dwells midnight in her stole,
While shady Even haunts a tranquil knoll.
| Poems | |