THE HILLS 
I7I 
 
Like a lion asleep in his fastness, 
Or a warrior leant on his spear, 
The hill stands up in the vastness, 
And the stars grow strangely near ; 
For the secret of life and its gladness 
Are hidden in strength that distils 
A potion of madness from berries of sadness 
Grown wild in the hills. 
 
Though the earth be disparted and rended, 
Thus only the great peaks change 
That their image is moulded and bended 
Into all that a fancy may range ; 
And the silence my song could refigure 
To the note of a bird did I will, 
Of glory or rigour, of passion or vigour— 
The change were to ill ! 
 
For silence is better than singing 
Though a Shelley wove songs in the sky, 
And hovering is sweeter than winging ; 
To live is less good than to die. 
The secret of secrets is hidden 
Not in the lives nor in loves, but in wills 
That are free and unchidden, that wander unbidden 
To home in the hills. 
 
A strength that is more than the summer 
Is firm in that silence and rest, 
Though stiller the rocks be and dumber 
That the soul of its slumber oppressed.