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 I am lonely for my thrushes In their hermitage withdrawn, Toning the quiet transports Of twilight and of dawn.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.
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