And I am ageless as a changing hill!

O hear me like that voice at night,

Clearer than sound, nearer than sight,

And let me be—as beauty is—divine!”

There is a hill of hills

That holds my heart on high and stills

All other sound

Than joy.

Robins and thrushes, whip-poor-wills

And morning-sparrows sing it round

With echoes. Waterfalls abound

And many streams convoy

The breath of music. I have found

A hill-path rising sudden on a city-street,

Out of a quarrel, out of black despair,

And climbed it with my winged feet.

It hurries me above

All this illusion, all these ills,

It rises quickly to the shining air.

.... Celia, I hear you on the hill of hills,

 Prev. P 57/58 next