_The Cry of the Hillborn_
I am homesick for the mountains--
My heroic mother hills--
And the longing that is on me
No solace ever stills.
I would climb to brooding summits
With their old untarnished dreams,
Cool my heart in forest shadows
To the lull of falling streams;
Hear the innocence of aspens
That babble in the breeze,
And the fragrant sudden showers
That patter on the trees.
I am lonely for my thrushes
In their hermitage withdrawn,
Toning the quiet transports
Of twilight and of dawn.
I need the pure, strong mornings,
When the soul of day is still,
With the touch of frost that kindles
The scarlet on the hill;
Lone trails and winding woodroads
To outlooks wild and high,
And the pale moon waiting sundown
Where ledges cut the sky.
I dream of upland clearings
Where cones of sumac burn,
And gaunt and gray-mossed boulders
Lie deep in beds of fern;
The gray and mottled beeches,
The birches’ satin sheen,
The majesty of hemlocks
Crowning the blue ravine.
My eyes dim for the skyline
Where purple peaks aspire,
And the forges of the sunset
Flare up in golden fire.
There crests look down unheeding
And see the great winds blow,
Tossing the huddled tree-tops
In gorges far below;
Where cloud-mists from the warm earth
Roll up about their knees,
And hang their filmy tatters
Like prayers upon the trees.
I cry for night-blue shadows
On plain and hill and dome,--
The spell of old enchantments,
The sorcery of home.
_Bliss Carman_
_Up a Hill and a Hill_
Up a hill and a hill there’s a sudden orchard-slope,
And a little tawny field in the sun;
There’s a gray wall that coils like a twist of frayed-out rope,
And grasses nodding news one to one.
Up a hill and a hill there’s a windy place to stand,
And between the apple-boughs to find the blue
Of the sleepy summer sea, past the cliffs of orange sand,
With the white charmed ships sliding through.
Up a hill and a hill there’s a little house as gray
As a stone that the glaciers scored and stained;
With a red rose by the door, and a tangled garden-way,
And a face at the window, checker-paned.
I could climb, I could climb, till the shoes fell off my feet,
Just to find that tawny field above the sea!
Up a hill and a hill,--oh, the honeysuckle’s sweet!
And the eyes at the window watch for me!
_Fannie Stearns Davis_
_Hills_
I never loved your plains!--
Your gentle valleys,
Your drowsy country lanes
And pleachèd alleys.
I want my hills!--the trail
That scorns the hollow.--
Up, up the ragged shale
Where few will follow,
Up, over wooded crest
And mossy boulder
With strong thigh, heaving chest,
And swinging shoulder,
So let me hold my way,
By nothing halted,
Until, at close of day,
I stand, exalted,
High on my hills of dream--
Dear hills that know me!
And then, how fair will seem
The lands below me,
How pure, at vesper-time,
The far bells chiming!
God, give me hills to climb,
And strength for climbing!
_Arthur Guiterman_
_Again Among the Hills_
Again among the hills!
The shaggy hills!
The clear arousing air comes like a call
Of bugle notes across the pines, and thrills
My heart as if a hero had just spoken.
Again among the hills!
The jubilant, unbroken,
Long dreaming of the hills!
Far off, Ascutney smiles as one at peace;
And over all
The golden sunlight pours, and fills
The hollow of the earth, like a god’s joy.
Again among the hills!
The tranquil hills
That took me as a boy
And filled my spirit with the silences!
O indolent, far-reaching hills that lie
Secure in your own strength, and take your ease
Like careless giants ’neath the summer sky--
What is it to you, O hills,
That anxious men should take thought for the morrow?
What has your might to do with thought or sorrow,
Or cark and cumber of conflicting wills?
Lone Pine, that thron’st thyself upon the height,
Aloof and kingly, overlooking all,
Yet uncompanioned, with the Day and Night
For pageant and the winds for festival!
I was thy minion once, and now renew
Mine ancient fealty--
To that which shaped me still remaining true,
And through allegiance only growing free.
* * * * *
The rising of the wind among the pines,
The runic wind, full of old legendries!
It talks to the ancient trees
Of sights and signs
And strange earth-creatures strong to make or mar--
Such tales as when the firelight flickered out
In the old days men heard and had no doubt.
O wind, what is your spell?
Borne on your cry, the ages slip away,
And lo, I too am of that elder day;
I crouch by the logs and hear
With credent ear
And simple marvel the far tales men tell.
* * * * *
... Night on the hills!
And the ancient stars emerge.
The silence of their mighty distances
Compels the world to peace. Now sinks the surge
Of life to a soft stir of mountain rills,
And over the swarm and urge
Of eager men sleep falls and darkling ease.
Night on the hills!
Dark mother-Night, draw near;
Lay hands on us and whisper words of cheer
So softly, oh, so softly! Now may we
Be each as one that leaves his midnight task
And throws his casement open; and the air
Comes up across the lowlands from the sea
And cools his temples, as a maid might ask
With shy caress what speech would never dare;
And he leans back to her demure desires,
And as a dream sees far below
The city with its lights aglow
And blesses in his heart his brothers there;
Then toward the eternal stars again aspires.
_Richard Hovey_
_Hill Hunger_
I want to stride the hills! My feet cry out
For hills! Oh, I am sick to death of streets:
The nausea of pavements and people always about;
The savagery of mortar and steel that beats
Me under, hedges me in; the iron shiver
Of traffic!--I want to stride the hills, I want
Hills toned frantic silver or a quiver
Of scarlet; hills that hunger and grow gaunt!
I am tired of steps and steps, and a thousand flights
Of stairs resounding, shuffling, quarreling
With shoes. I want a hill on windy nights,
When April pauses with me, clambering
Over the purple side to the top, until
We pull ourselves up by a star--the hill! the hill!
_Joseph Auslander_
_Afternoon on a Hill_
I will be the gladdest thing
Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
And not pick one.
I will look at cliffs and clouds
With quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
And the grass rise.
And when lights begin to show
Up from the town,
I will mark which must be mine,
And then start down!
_Edna St. Vincent Millay_
_The Hills_
O my Soul, let us go unto our hills,
We were native to them one day, you and I--
Less dwellers of the earth than of the sky
Where the holy sense of silence stays and stills,
Like a hand of benediction lifted high.
We have stayed in this market-place too long;
We have bartered with the birth-right in our breast;
We have shamed us with buffoonery and jest,
Nor raised our eyes to where our hills were strong,
Above this petty region of unrest.
O, my Soul, let us go unto our hills,
To their wonderful, high silence and their might,
Where the old dreams shall whisper us by night
Till the sullen heart within us stirs and thrills,
And wakes to weep and wonder and delight.
O my soul, let us go unto our hills.
_Theodosia Garrison_
_On a Hill_
Spring on a wind-swept hill!
The grass at our feet
Sheered into waves of light!
Spring, and the woodbird’s trill!
Spring, and the stars of night
Turned dewdrops glist’ning sweet.
Earth-chained we stand,
Thinking unearthly things,
Looking across the land,
Over the hills, beyond the sea,
Our souls on tireless wings
Soaring Eternity.
Spring! oh, the wind’s rush
In the joyous trees!
Oh, wide, free sky, and white
Laughing clouds! And the hush
When, as a musician’s might,
God’s Hand rests on His keys.
_Irene Rutherford McLeod_
_Traveller’s Joy_
_Whose farthest footstep never strayed beyond the village of his birth
Is but a lodger for the night in this old wayside inn of earth.
Tomorrow he shall take his pack and set out for the ways beyond
On the old trail from star to star, an alien and a vagabond._