The gray clouds rush among their peaks,
Some weakness there the storm-king seeks.
A frightened boulder breaks away
And rolls into the glen;
A tree is crushed to earth again,
But staunch and brave the hills remain,
A symbol of unfaltering faith
To all the hosts of men.
Time was the hills were tinged with gold,
About them seas of crimson rolled,
A gentle beauty graced their brows
As delicate as May
Who comes with blossoms in her hair.
They laughed away the summer there,
But now sublimely stern they stand,
Attired in somber gray.
Symbols of strength, unmoved they keep
Their place against the winds that sweep;
Defenders of our coast of faith,
They signal to us all
That what is strong and best and true
Shall breast the gale and live it through
To greet the birth of spring again
And hear the song bird's call.
Last Night the Baby Cried
Last night the baby cried. And I,
Roused from a sound and soothing sleep,
Wondered to hear that little cry.
For ten long years in slumber deep
I've lived my nights, and so it seemed
That what I'd heard I'd only dreamed.
For ten long years a banging gate,
The milkman's whistle, or the horn
Of motors driven at rapid rate,
Have wakened me at early dawn;
But late last night awake was I,
Thinking I'd heard a baby cry.
I leaned upon my elbow there
And wondered did I dream or not?
But once again upon the air
The call came from her tiny cot!
Then peacefully I turned and smiled
To hear the crying of our child.
Lonely and still the house has seemed
For ten long years, but once again
We have the joy of which we'd dreamed—
The joy which many seek in vain!
Oh, happy, happy home, thought I,
That wakes to hear a baby cry.