I70 
THE HILLS 
 
Though the desolate waste be enchaunted 
By a spell that bewilders and chills, 
To me it is granted to worship the haunted 
Delight of the hills. 
 
To me all the blossoms are seedless, 
Yet big with all manner of fruit : 
And a voice in the waste is needless 
Since my soul in its splendour is mute. 
Though the height of the hill be deserted, 
The soul of a man has its mate ; 
With the wide sky skirted his heart is reverted 
To commune with Fate. 
 
Far flings out the spur to the sunset ; 
Its help to the hope of the sun 
That all be unfolded if one set, 
That none be apart from the One ; 
And the sweep of the wings of the weather, 
Marked bright with the silvery ghylls 
For flickering feather, brings all things together 
To nest in the hills. 
 
Like a great bird poised in the æther, 
The mountain keeps watch over earth, 
On the child that lies sleeping beneath her 
Wild-eyed from a terrible birth. 
But by noise of the world unshaken, 
By dance of the world not bedinned, 
The hill bides forsaken, yet only to waken 
Her lover, the wind.