THE hills are white, but not with snow: They are as pale in summer time, For herb or grass may never grow Upon their slopes of lime. Within the circle of the hills A ring, all flowering in a round, An orchard-ring of almond fills The plot of stony ground. More fair than happier trees, I think, Grown in well-watered pasture land These parched and stunted branches, pink Above the stones and sand. O white, austere, ideal place, Where very few will care to come, Where spring hath lost the waving grace She wears for us at home! Fain would I sit and watch for hours The holy whiteness of thy hills, Their wreath of pale auroral flowers, Their peace the silence fills. A place of secret peace thou art, Such peace as in an hour of pain One moment fills the amazed heart, And never comes again. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HERETIC: 3. MOCKERY by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE BROKEN PITCHER by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN AN UNINSCRIBED MONUMENT - BATTLE OF THE WILDERNESS by HERMAN MELVILLE EPISTLE TO MISS TERESA BLOUNT, ON HER LEAVING THE TOWN by ALEXANDER POPE ANTONIO by LAURA ELIZABETH HOWE RICHARDS SING-SONG; A NURSERY RHYME BOOK: 110 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI SPANISH SPRING by JEAN D. ARMSTRONG RAISING THE DEVIL; A LEGEND OF CORNELIUS AGRIPPA by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM |