At last, one night, he came to a hill, sloping gently as if something beautiful were overflowing. Its trees looked laid upon the mellow west beyond. The turf was like some Titan woman’s embroidery, sheared and flowered. Hazen looked at it all, and at the great sky and the welcoming distance, and before he knew whether it came as a thought or as a song, he had made a little rhyme:—
Do you wish you had a world of gold
With a turquoise roof on high,
And a coral east and a ruby west
And diamonds in the sky?
Do you wish there were little doors of air
That a child might open wide,
Where were emerald chairs and a tourmaline rug
And a moonstone moon beside?
Do you wish the lakes were silver plates