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The Cloister in the Hills
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 | Golden Histories, etc |  |
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The Cloister in the Hills
This and the following poem, as well as some sonnets in another part of this volume, are reprinted from the “Children's Summer,” Seventeen Illustrations by E. V. B. The Forest Dream was also written to illustrate a water-colour drawing by the same delightful artist.
There is a cleft in far-off purple hills,
Where angels in a cloister sing and play;
The doubtful moon, while eve outgrows the day,
Hangs her pale crescent o'er the glens and rills.
Where angels in a cloister sing and play;
The doubtful moon, while eve outgrows the day,
Hangs her pale crescent o'er the glens and rills.
There, music of young winds and waters born,
Blends with the angels' music as it fades,
And ever, thro' declining lights and shades,
Sounds far away one wandering bugle-horn.
Blends with the angels' music as it fades,
And ever, thro' declining lights and shades,
Sounds far away one wandering bugle-horn.
And often there a Seraph-woman sings,
Mid purple twilights to the listening moon,
And oft the traveller hears her mystic tune,
Or feels the brightness of her open wings.
Mid purple twilights to the listening moon,
And oft the traveller hears her mystic tune,
Or feels the brightness of her open wings.
And children hear her that belated sleep
In the blue hollow of those shadowy hills,
And far-off sounds, but not of winds or rills,
Stir them with thoughts for childish dreams too deep,
In the blue hollow of those shadowy hills,
And far-off sounds, but not of winds or rills,
Stir them with thoughts for childish dreams too deep,
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Until they wake and fain to heaven would climb,
To hear the angels sing in purer air;
And as they climb, arises stair on stair,
Far up the hills and into heights sublime.
To hear the angels sing in purer air;
And as they climb, arises stair on stair,
Far up the hills and into heights sublime.
So let them climb and hear the ancient tales
That angels tell, but not of human woes;
So let them climb with palm-branch and with rose,
Where holier moonlight, mellower air, prevails.
That angels tell, but not of human woes;
So let them climb with palm-branch and with rose,
Where holier moonlight, mellower air, prevails.
So let them stand and hear the angels' lay,
And stroke the birds whose song their singing stills,
So touch the stars that diadem the hills,
And feel as angels feel when angels pray.
And stroke the birds whose song their singing stills,
So touch the stars that diadem the hills,
And feel as angels feel when angels pray.
| Golden Histories, etc | |