AIRY TONGUES

Not till the wildman wind is shrill,Howling upon the hillIn every wolfish tree, whose boisterous boughs,Like desperate arms, gesture and beat the night,And down huge clouds, in chasms of stormy whiteThe frightened moon hurries above the house,Shall I lie down; and, deep,—Letting the mad wind keepIts shouting revel round me,—fall asleep.

Not till its dark halloo is hushed,And where wild waters rushed,—Like some hoofed terror underneath its whipAnd spur of foam,—remainsA ghostly glass, hill-framed; whereover stainsOf moony mists and rains,And stealthy starbeams, like vague specters, slip;Shall I—with thoughts that takeUnto themselves the acheOf silence as a sound—from sleep awake.

I hear a song the wet leaves lispWhen Morn comes down the woodland way;And misty as a thistle-wispHer gown gleams windy gray;A song, that seems to say,"Awake! 'tis day!"I hear a sigh, when Day sits downBeside the sunlight-lulled lagoon;While on her glistening hair and gownThe rose of rest is strewn;A sigh, that seems to croon,"Come sleep! 'tis noon!"I hear a whisper, when the stars,Upon some evening-purpled height,Crown the dead Day with nenupharsOf dreamy gold and white;A voice, that seems t' invite,"Come love! 'tis night!"

I hear a song the wet leaves lispWhen Morn comes down the woodland way;And misty as a thistle-wispHer gown gleams windy gray;A song, that seems to say,"Awake! 'tis day!"

I hear a sigh, when Day sits downBeside the sunlight-lulled lagoon;While on her glistening hair and gownThe rose of rest is strewn;A sigh, that seems to croon,"Come sleep! 'tis noon!"

I hear a whisper, when the stars,Upon some evening-purpled height,Crown the dead Day with nenupharsOf dreamy gold and white;A voice, that seems t' invite,"Come love! 'tis night!"

Before the rathe song-sparrow singsAmong the hawtrees in the lane,And to the wind the locust flingsIts early clusters fresh with rain;Beyond the morning-star, that swingsIts rose of fire above the spire,Between the morning's watchet wings,A voice that rings o'er brooks and boughs—"Arouse! arouse!"Before the first brown owlet criesAmong the grape-vines on the hill,And in the dam with half-shut eyesThe lilies rock above the mill;Beyond the oblong moon, that fliesIts pearly flower above the tower,Between the twilight's primrose skies,A voice that sighs from east to west—"To rest! to rest!"

Before the first brown owlet criesAmong the grape-vines on the hill,And in the dam with half-shut eyesThe lilies rock above the mill;Beyond the oblong moon, that fliesIts pearly flower above the tower,Between the twilight's primrose skies,A voice that sighs from east to west—"To rest! to rest!"

There is no joy of earth that thrillsMy bosom like the far-off hills!Th' unchanging hills, that, shadowy,Beckon our mutabilityTo follow and to gaze uponFoundations of the dusk and dawn.Meseems the very heavens are massedUpon their shoulders, vague and vastWith all the skyey burden ofThe winds and clouds and stars above.Lo, how they sit before us, seeingThe laws that give all Beauty being!Behold! to them, when dawn is near,The nomads of the air appear,Unfolding crimson camps of dayIn brilliant bands; then march away;And under burning battlementsOf twilight plant their tinted tents.The faith of olden myths, that broodBy haunted stream and haunted wood,They see; and feel the happinessOf old at which we only guess:The dreams, the ancients loved and knew,Still as their rocks and trees are true:Not otherwise than presencesThe tempest and the calm to these:One shouting on them, all the night,Black-limbed and veined with lambent light:The other with the ministryOf all soft things that companyWith music—an embodied form,Giving to solitude the charmOf leaves and waters and the peaceOf bird-begotten melodies—And who at night doth still conferWith the mild moon, who telleth herPale tale of lonely love, untilWan images of passion fillThe heights with shapes that glimmer byClad on with sleep and memory.

Not as the eye hath seen, shall we beholdRomance and beauty, when we've passed away;That robed the dull facts of the intimate dayIn life's wild raiment of unusual gold:Not as the ear hath heard, shall we be told,Hereafter, myth and legend once that layWarm at the heart of Nature, clothing clayIn attribute of no material mold.These were imperfect of necessity,That wrought thro' imperfection for far endsOf perfectness—As calm philosophy,Teaching a child, from his high heav'n descendsTo Earth's familiar things; informinglyVesting his thoughts with that it comprehends.

Earth hath her images of utterance,Her hieroglyphic meanings which elude;A symbol language of similitude,Into whose secrets science may not glance;In which the Mind-in-Nature doth romanceIn miracles that baffle if pursued—No guess shall search them and no thought intrudeBeyond the limits of her sufferance.So doth the great Intelligence aboveHide His own thought's creations; and attireForms in the dream's ideal, which He dowersWith immaterial loveliness and love—As essences of fragrance and of fire—Preaching th' evangels of the stars and flowers.

First came the rain, loud, with sonorous lips;A pursuivant who heralded a prince:And dawn put on a livery of tints,And dusk bound gold about her hair and hips:And, all in silver mail, then sunlight came,A knight, who bade the winter let him pass,And freed imprisoned beauty, naked asThe Court of Love, in all her wildflower shame.And so she came, in breeze-borne loveliness,Across the hills; and heav'n bent down to bless:Before her face the birds were as a lyre;And at her feet, like some strong worshiper,The shouting water pæan'd praise of her,Who, with blue eyes, set the wild world on fire.

There is a music of immaculate love,That breathes within the virginal veins of Spring:—And trillium blossoms, like the stars that clingTo fairies' wands; and, strung on sprays above,White-hearts and mandrake blooms, that look enoughLike the elves' washing, white with launderingOf May-moon dews; and all pale-openingWild-flowers of the woods, are born thereof.There is no sod Spring's white foot brushes butMust feel the music that vibrates within,And thrill to the communicated touchResponsive harmonies, that must unshutThe heart of beauty for song's concrete kin,Emotions—that be flowers—born of such.

Yes, there are some who may look on theseEssential peoples of the earth and air—That have the stars and flowers in their care—And all their soul-suggestive secrecies:Heart-intimates and comrades of the trees,Who from them learn, what no known schools declare,God's knowledge; and from winds, that discourse there,God's gospel of diviner mysteries:To whom the waters shall divulge a wordOf fuller faith; the sunset and the dawnPreach sermons more inspired even thanThe tongues of Penticost; as, distant heardIn forms of change, through Nature upward drawn,God doth address th' immortal soul of Man.

It is the time when, by the forest falls,The touchmenots hang fairy folly-caps;When ferns and flowers fill the lichened lapsOf rocks with color, rich as orient shawls:And in my heart I hear a voice that callsMe woodward, where the Hamadryad wrapsHer limbs in bark, or, bubbling in the saps,Laughs the sweet Greek of Pan's old madrigals.There is a gleam that lures me up the stream—A Naiad swimming with wet limbs of light?Perfume, that leads me on from dream to dream—An Oread's footprints fragrant with her flight?And, lo! meseems I am a Faun again,Part of the myths that I pursue in vain.

Sad o'er the hills the poppy sunset died.Slow as a fungus breaking through the crustsOf forest leaves, the waning half-moon thrusts,Through gray-brown clouds, one milky silver side;In her vague light the dogwoods, vale-descried,Seem nervous torches flourished by the gusts;The apple-orchards seem the restless dustsOf wind-thinned mists upon the hills they hide.It is a night of omens whom late MayMeets, like a wraith, among her train of hours;An apparition, with appealing eyeAnd hesitant foot, that walks a willowed way,And, speaking through the fading moon andflowers,Bids her prepare her gentle soul to die.

The hornets build in plaster-dropping rooms,And on its mossy porch the lizard lies;Around its chimneys slow the swallow flies,And on its roof the locusts snow their blooms.Like some sad thought that broods here, old perfumesHaunt its dim stairs; the cautious zephyr triesEach gusty door, like some dead hand, then sighsWith ghostly lips among the attic glooms.And now a heron, now a kingfisher,Flits in the willows where the riffle seemsAt each faint fall to hesitate to leap,Fluttering the silence with a little stir.Here Summer seems a placid face asleep,And the near world a figment of her dreams.

Calling, the heron flies athwart the blueThat sleeps above it; reach on rocky reachOf water sings by sycamore and beech,In whose warm shade bloom lilies not a few.It is a page whereon the sun and dewScrawl sparkling words in dawn's delicious speech;A laboratory where the wood-winds teach,Dissect each scent and analyze each hue.Not otherwise than beautiful, doth itRecord the happ'nings of each summer day;Where we may read, as in a catalogue,When passed a thresher; when a load of hay;Or when a rabbit; or a bird that lit;And now a bare-foot truant and his dog.

There, from its entrance, lost in matted vines,—Where in the valley foams a water-fall,—-Is glimpsed a ruined mill's remaining wall;Here, by the road, the oxeye daisy minesHot brass and bronze; the trumpet-trailer shinesRed as the plumage of the cardinal.Faint from the forest comes the rain-crow's callWhere dusty Summer dreams among the pines.This is the spot where Spring writes wildflower versesIn primrose pink, while, drowsing o'er his reins,The ploughman, all unnoticing, plods along:And where the Autumn opens weedy pursesOf sleepy silver, while the corn-heaped wainsRumble the bridge like some deep throat of song.

Ten-hundred deep the drifted daisies breakHere at the hill's foot; on its top, the wheatHangs meagre-bearded; and, in vague retreat,The wisp-like blooms of the moth-mulleins shake.And where the wild-pink drops a crimson flake,And morning-glories, like young lips, make sweetThe shaded hush, low in the honeyed heat,The wild-bees hum; as if afraid to wakeOne sleeping there; with no white stone to tellThe story of existence; but the stemOf one wild-rose, towering o'er brier and weed,Where all the day the wild-birds requiem;Within whose shade the timid violets spellAn epitaph, only the stars can read.

Dark in the west the sunset's somber wrackUnrolled vast walls the rams of war had split,Along whose battlements the battle litTempestuous beacons; and, with gates hurled back,A mighty city, red with ruin and sack,Through burning breaches, crumbling bit by bit,Showed where the God of Slaughter seemed to sitWith conflagration glaring at each crack.Who knows? perhaps as sleep unto us makesOur dreams as real as our waking seemsWith recollections time can not destroy,So in the mind of Nature now awakesHaply some wilder memory, and she dreamsThe stormy story of the fall of Troy.

How does the Autumn in her mind concludeThe tragic masque her frosty pencil writes,Broad on the pages of the days and nights,In burning lines of orchard, wold, and wood?What lonelier forms—that at the year's door stoodAt spectral wait—with wildly wasted lightsShall enter? and with melancholy ritesInaugurate their sadder sisterhood?—Sorrow, who lifts a signal hand, and slowThe green leaf fevers, falling ere it dies;Regret, whose pale lips summon, and gaunt WoeWakes the wild-wind harps with sonorous sighs;And Sleep, who sits with poppied eyes and seesThe earth and sky grow dream-accessories.

The flute, whence Autumn's misty finger-tipsDrew music—ripening the pinched kernels inThe burly chestnut and the chinquapin,Red-rounding-out the oval haws and hips,—Now Winter crushes to his stormy lipsAnd surly songs whistle around his chin:Now the wild days and wilder nights beginWhen, at the eaves, the crooked icicle drips.Thy songs, O Autumn, are not lost so soon!Still dwells a memory in thy hollow flute,Which, unto Winter's masculine airs, doth giveThy own creative qualities of tune,By which we see each bough bend white with fruit,Each bush with bloom, in snow commemorative.

The frail eidolons of all blossoms Spring,Year after year, about the forest tossed,The magic touch of the enchanter, Frost,Back from the Heaven of the Flow'rs doth bring;Each branch and bush in silence visitingWith phantom beauty of its blooms long lost:Each dead weed bends, white-haunted of its ghost,Each dead flower stands ghostly with blossoming.This is the wonder-legend Nature tellsTo the gray moon and mist a winter's night;The fairy-tale, which her weird fancy 'spellsWith all the glamour of her soul's delight:Before the summoning sorcery of her eyesMaking her spirit's dream materialize.

Deep in the dell I watched her as she rose,A face of icy fire, o'er the hills;With snow-sad eyes to freeze the forest rills,And snow-sad feet to bleach the meadow snows:Pale as some young witch who, a-listening, goesTo her first meeting with the Fiend; whose fearsFix demon eyes behind each bush she nears;Stops, yet must on, fearful of following foes.And so I chased her, startled in the wood,Like a discovered Oread, who fliesThe Faun who found her sleeping, each nude limbGlittering betrayal through the solitude;Till in a frosty cloud I saw her swim,Like a drowned face, a blur beneath the ice.

When in dry hollows, hilled with hay,The vesper-sparrow sings afar;And, golden gray, dusk dies awayBeneath the amber evening-star:There, where a warm and shadowy armThe woodland lays around the farm,To meet you where we kissed, dear heart,To kiss you at the tryst, dear heart,To kiss you at the tryst!When clover fields smell cool with dew,And crickets cry, and roads are still;And faint and few the fire-flies strewThe dark where calls the whippoorwill;There, in the lane, where sweet againThe petals of the wild-rose rain,To stroll with head to head, dear heart,And say the words oft said, dear heart,And say the words oft said!

When clover fields smell cool with dew,And crickets cry, and roads are still;And faint and few the fire-flies strewThe dark where calls the whippoorwill;There, in the lane, where sweet againThe petals of the wild-rose rain,To stroll with head to head, dear heart,And say the words oft said, dear heart,And say the words oft said!

I hear the hoofs of horsesGalloping over the hill,Galloping on and galloping on,When all the night is shrillWith wind and rain that beats the pane—And my soul with awe is still.For every dripping windowTheir headlong rush makes bound,Galloping up, and galloping by,Then back again and around,Till the gusty roofs ring with their hoofs,And the draughty cellars sound.And then I hear black horsemenHallooing in the night;Hallooing and hallooing,They ride o'er vale and height,And the branches snap and the shutters clapWith the fury of their flight.Then at each door a horseman,—With burly bearded lipHallooing through the keyhole,—Pauses with cloak a-drip;And the door-knob shakes and the panel quakes'Neath the anger of his whip.All night I hear their gallop,And their wild halloo's alarm;The tree-tops sound and vanes go roundIn forest and on farm;But never a hair of a thing is there—Only the wind and storm.

I hear the hoofs of horsesGalloping over the hill,Galloping on and galloping on,When all the night is shrillWith wind and rain that beats the pane—And my soul with awe is still.

For every dripping windowTheir headlong rush makes bound,Galloping up, and galloping by,Then back again and around,Till the gusty roofs ring with their hoofs,And the draughty cellars sound.

And then I hear black horsemenHallooing in the night;Hallooing and hallooing,They ride o'er vale and height,And the branches snap and the shutters clapWith the fury of their flight.

Then at each door a horseman,—With burly bearded lipHallooing through the keyhole,—Pauses with cloak a-drip;And the door-knob shakes and the panel quakes'Neath the anger of his whip.

All night I hear their gallop,And their wild halloo's alarm;The tree-tops sound and vanes go roundIn forest and on farm;But never a hair of a thing is there—Only the wind and storm.

"I belt the morn with ribboned mist;With baldricked blue I gird the noon,And dusk with purple, crimson-kissed,White-buckled with the hunter's moon."These follow me," the season says:"Mine is the frost-pale hand that packsTheir scrips, and speeds them on their ways,With gipsy gold that weighs their backs."

"I belt the morn with ribboned mist;With baldricked blue I gird the noon,And dusk with purple, crimson-kissed,White-buckled with the hunter's moon.

"These follow me," the season says:"Mine is the frost-pale hand that packsTheir scrips, and speeds them on their ways,With gipsy gold that weighs their backs."

A daybreak horn the Autumn blows,As with a sun-tanned band he partsWet boughs whereon the berry glows;And at his feet the red-fox starts.The leafy leash that holds his houndsIs loosed; and all the noonday hushIs startled; and the hillside soundsBehind the fox's bounding brush.When red dusk makes the western skyA fire-lit window through the firs,He stoops to see the red-fox dieAmong the chestnut's broken burs.Then fanfaree and fanfaree,Down vistas of the afterglowHis bugle rings from tree to tree,While all the world grows hushed below.

A daybreak horn the Autumn blows,As with a sun-tanned band he partsWet boughs whereon the berry glows;And at his feet the red-fox starts.

The leafy leash that holds his houndsIs loosed; and all the noonday hushIs startled; and the hillside soundsBehind the fox's bounding brush.

When red dusk makes the western skyA fire-lit window through the firs,He stoops to see the red-fox dieAmong the chestnut's broken burs.

Then fanfaree and fanfaree,Down vistas of the afterglowHis bugle rings from tree to tree,While all the world grows hushed below.

Like some black host the shadows fall,And darkness camps among the trees;Each wildwood road, a Goblin Hall,Grows populous with mysteries.Night comes with brows of ragged storm,And limbs of writhen cloud and mist;The rain-wind hangs upon her armLike some wild girl that will be kissed.By her gaunt hand the leaves are shedLike nightmares an enchantress herds;And, like a witch who calls the dead,The hill-stream whirls with foaming words.Then all is sudden silence andDark fear—like his who can not see,Yet hears, aye in a haunted land,Death rattling on a gallow's tree.

Like some black host the shadows fall,And darkness camps among the trees;Each wildwood road, a Goblin Hall,Grows populous with mysteries.

Night comes with brows of ragged storm,And limbs of writhen cloud and mist;The rain-wind hangs upon her armLike some wild girl that will be kissed.

By her gaunt hand the leaves are shedLike nightmares an enchantress herds;And, like a witch who calls the dead,The hill-stream whirls with foaming words.

Then all is sudden silence andDark fear—like his who can not see,Yet hears, aye in a haunted land,Death rattling on a gallow's tree.

The days approach again; the days,Whose mantles stream, whose sandals drag;When in the haze by puddled waysEach gnarled thorn seems a crookéd hag.When rotting orchards reek with rain;And woodlands crumble, leaf and log;And in the drizzling yard againThe gourd is tagged with points of fog.Oh, let me seat my soul amongYour melancholy moods! and touchYour thoughts' sweet sorrow without tongue,Whose silence says too much, too much!

The days approach again; the days,Whose mantles stream, whose sandals drag;When in the haze by puddled waysEach gnarled thorn seems a crookéd hag.

When rotting orchards reek with rain;And woodlands crumble, leaf and log;And in the drizzling yard againThe gourd is tagged with points of fog.

Oh, let me seat my soul amongYour melancholy moods! and touchYour thoughts' sweet sorrow without tongue,Whose silence says too much, too much!

Long hosts of sunlight, and the bright wind blowsA tourney trumpet on the listed hill:Past is the splendor of the royal roseAnd duchess daffodil.Crowned queen of beauty, in the garden's space,Strong daughter of a bitter race and bold,A ragged beggar with a lovely face,Reigns the sad marigold.And I have sought June's butterfly for days,To find it—like a coreopsis bloom—Amber and seal, rain-murdered 'neath the blazeOf this sunflower's plume.Here basks the bee; and there, sky-voyaging wingsDare God's blue gulfs of heaven; the last song,The red-bird flings me as adieu, still ringsUpon yon pear-tree's prong.No angry sunset brims with rosier redThe bowl of heaven than the days, indeed,Pour in each blossom of this salvia-bed,Where each leaf seems to bleed.And where the wood-gnats dance, a tiny mist,Above the efforts of the weedy stream,The girl, October, tired of the tryst,Dreams a diviner dream.One foot just dipping the caressing wave,One knee at languid angle; locks that drownHands nut-stained; hazel-eyed, she lies, and grave,Watching the leaves drift down.

Long hosts of sunlight, and the bright wind blowsA tourney trumpet on the listed hill:Past is the splendor of the royal roseAnd duchess daffodil.

Crowned queen of beauty, in the garden's space,Strong daughter of a bitter race and bold,A ragged beggar with a lovely face,Reigns the sad marigold.

And I have sought June's butterfly for days,To find it—like a coreopsis bloom—Amber and seal, rain-murdered 'neath the blazeOf this sunflower's plume.

Here basks the bee; and there, sky-voyaging wingsDare God's blue gulfs of heaven; the last song,The red-bird flings me as adieu, still ringsUpon yon pear-tree's prong.

No angry sunset brims with rosier redThe bowl of heaven than the days, indeed,Pour in each blossom of this salvia-bed,Where each leaf seems to bleed.

And where the wood-gnats dance, a tiny mist,Above the efforts of the weedy stream,The girl, October, tired of the tryst,Dreams a diviner dream.

One foot just dipping the caressing wave,One knee at languid angle; locks that drownHands nut-stained; hazel-eyed, she lies, and grave,Watching the leaves drift down.

O heart, that beat the bird's blithe blood,The blithe bird's message that pursued,Now song is dead as last year's bud,What dost thou in the wood?O soul, that kept the brook's glad flow,The glad brook's word to sun and moon,What dost thou here where song lies lowAs all the dreams of June?Where once was heard a voice of song,The hautboys of the mad winds sing;Where once a music flowed along,The rain's wild bugles ring.The weedy water frets and ails,And moans in many a sunless fall;And, o'er the melancholy, trailsThe black crow's eldritch call.Unhappy brook! O withered wood!O days, whom death makes comrades of!Where are the birds that thrilled the bloodWhen life struck hands with love?A song, one soared against the blue;A song, one bubbled in the leaves;A song, one threw where orchards grewAll appled to the eaves.But now the birds are flown or dead;And sky and earth are bleak and gray;The wild winds sob i' the boughs instead,The wild leaves sigh i' the way.

O heart, that beat the bird's blithe blood,The blithe bird's message that pursued,Now song is dead as last year's bud,What dost thou in the wood?

O soul, that kept the brook's glad flow,The glad brook's word to sun and moon,What dost thou here where song lies lowAs all the dreams of June?

Where once was heard a voice of song,The hautboys of the mad winds sing;Where once a music flowed along,The rain's wild bugles ring.

The weedy water frets and ails,And moans in many a sunless fall;And, o'er the melancholy, trailsThe black crow's eldritch call.

Unhappy brook! O withered wood!O days, whom death makes comrades of!Where are the birds that thrilled the bloodWhen life struck hands with love?

A song, one soared against the blue;A song, one bubbled in the leaves;A song, one threw where orchards grewAll appled to the eaves.

But now the birds are flown or dead;And sky and earth are bleak and gray;The wild winds sob i' the boughs instead,The wild leaves sigh i' the way.

The rainy smell of a ferny dell,Whose shadow no sunray flaws,When Autumn sits in the wayside weedsTelling her beadsOf haws.

The phantom mist, that is moonbeam-kissed,On hills where the trees are thinned,When Autumn leans at the oak-root's scarp,Playing a harpOf wind.

The crickets' chirr 'neath brier and burr,By leaf-strewn pools and streams,When Autumn stands 'mid the dropping nuts,With the book, she shuts,Of dreams.

The gray "alas" of the days that pass,And the hope that says "adieu,"A parting sorrow, a shriveled flower,And one ghost's hourWith you.

The moon, like a round deviceOn a shadowy shield of war,Hangs white in a heaven of iceWith a solitary star.The wind is sunk to a sigh,And the waters are stern with frost;And gray, in the eastern sky,The last snow-cloud is lost.White fields, that are winter-starved,Black woods, that are winter-fraught,Cold, harsh as a face death-carvedWith the iron of some black thought.

The moon, like a round deviceOn a shadowy shield of war,Hangs white in a heaven of iceWith a solitary star.

The wind is sunk to a sigh,And the waters are stern with frost;And gray, in the eastern sky,The last snow-cloud is lost.

White fields, that are winter-starved,Black woods, that are winter-fraught,Cold, harsh as a face death-carvedWith the iron of some black thought.

Your heart's a-tune with April and mine a-tune with June,So let us go a-roving beneath the summer moon:Oh, was it in the sunlight, or was it in the rain,We met among the blossoms within the locust lane?All that I can remember's the bird that sang aboon,And with its music in our hearts we'll rove beneath the moon.A love-word of the wind, dear, of which we'll read the rune,While we still go a-roving beneath the summer moon:A love-kiss of the water we'll often stop to hear—The echoed words and kisses of our own love, my dear:And all our path shall blossom with wild-rose sweets that swoon,And with their fragrance in our hearts we'll rove beneath the moon.It will not be forever, yet merry goes the tuneWhile we still go a-roving beneath the summer moon:A cabin, in the clearing, of flickering firelightWhen old-time lanes we strolled in the winter snows make white:Where we can nod together above the logs and croonThe songs we sang when roving beneath the summer moon.

A love-word of the wind, dear, of which we'll read the rune,While we still go a-roving beneath the summer moon:A love-kiss of the water we'll often stop to hear—The echoed words and kisses of our own love, my dear:And all our path shall blossom with wild-rose sweets that swoon,And with their fragrance in our hearts we'll rove beneath the moon.

It will not be forever, yet merry goes the tuneWhile we still go a-roving beneath the summer moon:A cabin, in the clearing, of flickering firelightWhen old-time lanes we strolled in the winter snows make white:Where we can nod together above the logs and croonThe songs we sang when roving beneath the summer moon.

It's Oh, for the hills, where the wind's some oneWith a vagabond foot that follows!And a cheer-up hand that he claps uponYour arm with the hearty words, "Come on!We'll soon be out of the hollows,My heart!We'll soon be out of the hollows!"It's Oh, for the songs, where the hope's some oneWith a renegade foot that doubles!And a kindly look that he turns uponYour face with the friendly laugh, "Come on!We'll soon be out of the troubles,My heart!We'll soon be out of the troubles!"

It's Oh, for the songs, where the hope's some oneWith a renegade foot that doubles!And a kindly look that he turns uponYour face with the friendly laugh, "Come on!We'll soon be out of the troubles,My heart!We'll soon be out of the troubles!"

The hills look down on wood and stream,On orchard-land and farm;And o'er the hills the azure-grayOf heaven bends the livelong dayWith thoughts of calm and storm.On wood and stream the hills look down,On farm and orchard-land;And o'er the hills she came to meThrough wildrose-brake and blackberry,The hill wind hand in hand.The hills look down on home and field,On wood and winding stream;And o'er the hills she came along,Upon her lips a woodland song,And in her eyes, a dream.On home and field the hills look down,On stream and vistaed wood;And breast-deep, with disordered hair,Fair in the wildrose tangle there,A sudden space she stood.O hills, that look on rock and road,On grove and harvest-field,To whom God giveth rest and peace,And slumber, that is kin to these,And visions unrevealed!O hills, that look on road and rock,On field and fruited grove,What now is mine of peace and restIn you! since entered at my breastGod's sweet unrest of love!

The hills look down on wood and stream,On orchard-land and farm;And o'er the hills the azure-grayOf heaven bends the livelong dayWith thoughts of calm and storm.

On wood and stream the hills look down,On farm and orchard-land;And o'er the hills she came to meThrough wildrose-brake and blackberry,The hill wind hand in hand.

The hills look down on home and field,On wood and winding stream;And o'er the hills she came along,Upon her lips a woodland song,And in her eyes, a dream.

On home and field the hills look down,On stream and vistaed wood;And breast-deep, with disordered hair,Fair in the wildrose tangle there,A sudden space she stood.

O hills, that look on rock and road,On grove and harvest-field,To whom God giveth rest and peace,And slumber, that is kin to these,And visions unrevealed!

O hills, that look on road and rock,On field and fruited grove,What now is mine of peace and restIn you! since entered at my breastGod's sweet unrest of love!

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