The Poems of Henry Van Dyke
 SIERRA MADRE

 O Mother mountains! billowing far to the snow-lands, Robed in aërial amethyst, silver, and blue, Why do ye look so proudly down on the lowlands? What have their groves and gardens to do with you?

O Mother mountains! billowing far to the snow-lands,

Robed in aërial amethyst, silver, and blue,

Why do ye look so proudly down on the lowlands?

What have their groves and gardens to do with you?

 Theirs is the languorous charm of the orange and myrtle, Theirs are the fruitage and fragrance of Eden of old,— Broad-boughed oaks in the meadows fair and fertile, Dark-leaved orchards gleaming with globes of gold.

Theirs is the languorous charm of the orange and myrtle,

Theirs are the fruitage and fragrance of Eden of old,—

Broad-boughed oaks in the meadows fair and fertile,

Dark-leaved orchards gleaming with globes of gold.

 You, in your solitude standing, lofty and lonely, Bear neither garden nor grove on your barren breasts; Rough is the rock-loving growth of your canyons, and only Storm-battered pines and fir-trees cling to your crests.

You, in your solitude standing, lofty and lonely,

Bear neither garden nor grove on your barren breasts;

Rough is the rock-loving growth of your canyons, and only

Storm-battered pines and fir-trees cling to your crests.

 Why are ye throned so high, and arrayed in splendour Richer than all the fields at your feet can claim? What is your right, ye rugged peaks, to the tender Queenly promise and pride of the mother-name?

Why are ye throned so high, and arrayed in splendour

Richer than all the fields at your feet can claim?

What is your right, ye rugged peaks, to the tender


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