We round the mighty shoulder of a hill—
Oh, sweet airs damp with ferns!
The day is old, the lengthening shadows chill—
The wanderer returns.
Traffic, and wakeful eyes of little lights;
The black crowd passing near; and far away
A fading rose of sunset hanging low
Above the roofs of indigo and grey.
“BELLS FROM OVER THE HILLS SOUND SWEET.”—Russian Proverb.
OH, when the afternoon is long and hazy,
So still the valley lies, so still, so still,
With sweeping smoky spirals blue and lazy,
With yellow light aglow from hill to hill.
Sometimes the echoes startle with my singing;
Sometimes a bird the heavy silence fills,
And always I can hear them ringing, ringing,
My mocking bells, my Bells from over the Hills.
Sweetly, faintly ring they, cruel ring they:
“Captive in your prison hear us call!”
Message from a life of action bring they,
Life beyond these hills more sweet than all.
Would that I could heed their call and follow,
Waking while this drowsy valley sleeps,
Follow Fortune over hill and hollow,
Wrest from her the treasures that she keeps!
My freedom gained, what fate would be for telling?
Still hills and hills beyond would stretch for aye.
Peace in this little valley has its dwelling,
And that the chase would profit who shall say?
For hopes and dear delights, ah, who can near them?
Something ungained, the heart with longing fills,
And follow though I might I still should hear them,
The mocking bells, the Bells from over the Hills.
IN TOWN
THE long street where the people go—
It is not like the paths I know,
Yet can I find the morning there,
All crystal light and early air.