Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THANK GOD FOR MOUNTAINS, by ACHSA W. SPRAGUE First Line: I see them in their beauty once again Last Line: No more forever. Subject(s): Mountains; Hills; Downs (great Britain) | ||||||||
I see them in their beauty once again The dear Green Mountains greet my eyes today, Not black and bare as when they met my view But one month since; but rich with foliage green, As if they donned a festal robe to greet My coming feet. How still the valley lies Beneath their shade! as if protecting arms Unseen, sustained it there and gave it rest, How every leaf and flower and tiny bud Looks up and smiles and thanks the sun's warm beams That steal so lovingly into its heart, To give it richer tints and fairer sheen! I love the mountains grand; For they have boldly stood confronting storms And tempests in their wrath; and hurricanes And whirlwinds beat their forms in vain. They never cower when comes the blighting blast, Or shrink when storm-clouds wrap them in their shrouds, But rear their foreheads to the sky the same; And when the cloudy veil is rent in twain, Bright, living sunshine, like the smile of God, Upon their summit rests. Alike in storm or calm Immovable, fit emblem of the true And loyal hearts that cling to truth and right, Still firmly standing when the weaker fail, And pointing, reaching still unerringly Toward heaven. How can one human being live Beneath their shade, unconscious of the truth, The mighty lesson that they teach? How can Disloyal hearts, disloyal to themselves, Their God, their country, and their sense of right, Grow up beneath their calm, unbending fronts, And shame the soil from whence they sprung? Thank God! a thousand times Thank God for mountains! They have ever been The exile's home, the outlaw's safe retreat, The last resort of God's old martyr-saints When men had cast them out as heretics, Closing the temple-gates against their forms, And hunting them with rack and torturing art, E'en to their death. Ah, once again I welcome thee, old Mountains of my youth, As thou dost welcome me, a wanderer! I lean my head on thy unchanging breast, And draw fresh strength through every vein, and life In every pore. And all the murmur of Thy sounding pines, thy trembling, sighing leaves, Thrills every nerve with sudden joy. Thy breath Steals soft o'er cheek and brow and lip, so full Of fragrance, bringing back my childhood's days, That I forget the weary midnight past And dream I am a child again. Thy voice, Thy touch, thy power win back to life once more. I shall not die. Teach me, sublime old mount, To stand like thee, defying clouds and storms, And wrap the snow-white mantle of a calm And holy resignation round my soul, When sorrow's dreary winter-time shall come! And when 'tis past, like thee reclothe myself In life's fresh verdure, till the hour shall come To be reclothed in Higher Worlds, in robes That young immortals wear, to lose their light No more forever. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CALIFORNIA SORROW: MOUNTAIN VIEW by MARY KINZIE CONTRA MORTEM: THE MOUNTAIN FASTNESS by HAYDEN CARRUTH GREEN MOUNTAIN IDYL by HAYDEN CARRUTH IF IT WERE NOT FOR YOU by HAYDEN CARRUTH COUNTING THE BEATS by ROBERT RANKE GRAVES |
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