To a Mountain
To thee, O father of the stately peaks,Above me in the loftier light—to thee,Imperial brother of those awful hillsWhose feet are set in splendid spheres of flame,Whose heads are where the gods are, and whose sidesOf strength are belted round with all the zonesOf all the world, I dedicate these songs.And if, within the compass of this book,There lives and glows one verse in which there beatsThe pulse of wind and torrent—if one lineIs here that like a running water sounds,And seems an echo from the lands of leaf,Be sure that line is thine. Here, in this home,Away from men and books and all the schools,I take thee for my Teacher. In thy voiceOf deathless majesty, I, kneeling, hearGod’s grand authentic Gospel! Year by year,The great sublime cantata of thy stormStrikes through my spirit—fills it with a lifeOf startling beauty! Thou my Bible art,With holy leaves of rock, and flower, and tree,And moss, and shining runnel. From each pageThat helps to make thy awful volume, IHave learned a noble lesson. In the psalmOf thy grave winds, and in the liturgyOf singing waters, lo! my soul has heardThe higher worship; and from thee, indeed,The broad foundations of a finer hopeWere gathered in; and thou hast lifted upThe blind horizon for a larger faith!Moreover, walking in exalted woodsOf naked glory, in the green and goldOf forest sunshine, I have paused like oneWith all the life transfigured; and a floodOf light ineffable has made me feelAs felt the grand old prophets caught awayBy flames of inspiration; but the wordsSufficient for the story of my DreamAre far too splendid for poor human lips.But thou, to whom I turn with reverent eyes—O stately Father, whose majestic faceShines far above the zone of wind and cloud,Where high dominion of the morning is—Thou hast the Song complete of which my songsAre pallid adumbrations! Certain soundsOf strong authentic sorrow in this bookMay have the sob of upland torrents—these,And only these, may touch the great World’s heart;For, lo! they are the issues of that griefWhich makes a man more human, and his lifeMore like that frank, exalted life of thine.But in these pages there are other tonesIn which thy large, superior voice is not—Through which no beauty that resembles thineHas ever shone. These are the broken wordsOf blind occasions, when the World has comeBetween me and my Dream. No song is hereOf mighty compass; for my singing robesI’ve worn in stolen moments. All my daysHave been the days of a laborious life,And ever on my struggling soul has burnedThe fierce heat of this hurried sphere. But thou,To whose fair majesty I dedicateMy book of rhymes—thou hast the perfect restWhich makes the heaven of the highest gods!To thee the noises of this violent timeAre far, faint whispers; and, from age to age,Within the world and yet apart from it,Thou standest! Round thy lordly capes the seaRolls on with a superb indifferenceFor ever; in thy deep, green, gracious glensThe silver fountains sing for ever. FarAbove dim ghosts of waters in the caves,The royal robe of morning on thy headAbides for ever. Evermore the windIs thy august companion; and thy peersAre cloud, and thunder, and the face sublimeOf blue mid-heaven! On thy awful browIs Deity; and in that voice of thineThere is the great imperial utteranceOf God for ever; and thy feet are setWhere evermore, through all the days and years,There rolls the grand hymn of the deathless wave.