1.
The mountains raise their faces
Up to the face of God;
They are fresh with balmy graces
And with flowers their feet are shod.
2.
In their soul is a noise of gladness,
Their veins swell out with song,—
With a feathery touch of sadness,
Like a dream of forgotten wrong.
3.
They have set their song to the metre
Of the bright-eyed summer days,
And our Land, to-day they greet her,
With lips that are red with praise.
X.
1.
Lake is calling to lake
With a ripply, musical sound,
As though half afraid to awake
The storm from his sleep profound.