THE HILLS 
 
TO OSCAR ECKENSTEIN 
 
WHENCE the black lands shudder and darken, 
Whence the sea birds have empire to range, 
Whence the moon and the meteor hearken 
The perpetual rhythm of change, 
On earth and in heaven deluded 
With time, that the soul of us kills, 
I have passed.  I have brooded, fled far to the wooded 
And desolate hills. 
 
Not there is the changing of voices 
That lament or regret or are sad, 
But the sun in his strength rejoices, 
The moon in her beauty is glad. 
As timeless and deathless time passes, 
And death is a hermit that dwells 
By the imminent masses of ice, where the grasses 
Abandon the fells. 
 
There silence, arrayed as a spectre, 
Is visible, tangible, near, 
To the cup of the man pours nectar, 
To the heart of the coward is fear : 
 
 
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