Up To The Hills.

—Samuel Longfellow.

FROM tame and level lowlands,
From the restless, restless sea,
My spirit reaches upward,
Calm mountain land, to thee!

Through the woodlands, through the farmlands,
I speed—yet all too slow;
And the rivers flow to meet me,
Flow to greet me, as I go.

Now green hills are beginning
To rise on every side;
And distant, beckoning summits
Glance shyly, and then hide.

Now they are all about me,
In their very arms I stand;
Their strength, their peace, their beauty,
Fold me on every hand.

For me they have been waiting,
Patient, unchanging, true;
Through all the long year’s absence
My faithful heart they knew.

How on their tranquil faces,
Immobile as they seem,
The loving eye still traces
The shifting thought and dream,—

Their sunny smile’s enchantment,
Their sad cheeks’ mournful curve,
Their glowing, breathing rapture,
Their secret, dark reserve!

How noble is their friendship!
They hold my freedom dear;
They encircle and they guard me,
Yet they will not come too near!

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