 | Shamrocks |  |
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THE LOVE OF THE HILLS.
I.
He who hath drawn from birth the mountain air,
All the blue hills' strange influence shaping him,
Hath loved them, lying mighty heart and limb,
And felt their solemn stillness as a prayer:
Who hath rejoiced in them, and found them fair,
Praised still their beauty were it bright or dim,
Fashioned their meanings; they too loving him
And answering him with understanding rare.
All the blue hills' strange influence shaping him,
Hath loved them, lying mighty heart and limb,
And felt their solemn stillness as a prayer:
Who hath rejoiced in them, and found them fair,
Praised still their beauty were it bright or dim,
Fashioned their meanings; they too loving him
And answering him with understanding rare.
Such a one—in the flat land lying drear,
With no world's ending, and an empty sky,
Lonely and vast, with but a strange bird's call,
Will bear his heart a-hungered many a year,
Sickening to see his hills stand silently,
Flushed with the day or grey at evenfall.
With no world's ending, and an empty sky,
Lonely and vast, with but a strange bird's call,
Will bear his heart a-hungered many a year,
Sickening to see his hills stand silently,
Flushed with the day or grey at evenfall.
161
II.
Therefore do I rejoice—who love you so,
My hills—to think there will be hills in heaven;
The everlasting hills, at dawn and even,
Standing to gaze against the sunlight glow;
Silver and grey, and domed with shining snow,
In rose-flecked purple and in wan gold laven.
Oh, there shall be none sick or unforgiven
In the most pleasant vales that lie below!
My hills—to think there will be hills in heaven;
The everlasting hills, at dawn and even,
Standing to gaze against the sunlight glow;
Silver and grey, and domed with shining snow,
In rose-flecked purple and in wan gold laven.
Oh, there shall be none sick or unforgiven
In the most pleasant vales that lie below!
And oh, the warm wind blowing from the heights!
Blowing like balm. I think that heaven will be,
In some sort, reassuming of old things—
Our hills, our woods, our song-birds, our delights,
And our lost loves that sailed away—ah me!—
Far on Death's dark, with wide unwavering wings.
Blowing like balm. I think that heaven will be,
In some sort, reassuming of old things—
Our hills, our woods, our song-birds, our delights,
And our lost loves that sailed away—ah me!—
Far on Death's dark, with wide unwavering wings.
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