Where narrow little valleys snugly lie In quietness, Where green New England mountains touch the sky With soft caress, There, chafing in a narrow round of toil, Rock-hard of face, A gloomy farmer longs for prairie soil And prairie space. Where all the world is empty of a tree To fleck the sky, Where far and far as weary sight may see The levels lie, There, languishing beneath the wheeling sun, -- So vast, so still, -- An exiled woman longs for one -- just one -- New England hill. Two prayers unanswered! Where exchange of ills Were rose for rue; And that is why I think that heaven has hills, And prairies too! |