We will carry our ills
To a height of the hills,
Lying down, lying still
In the lap of a hill.
The wind blowing keen
Shall again make us clean,
Both body and spirit;
As it passes we shall hear it.
The time is of thunder
And fields new turned under,
Of budding and waking;
Of thorn-blossom flaking.
Of longing and questing;
Of carol and nesting;
Of white birds on the wing
Over seas blue with spring.
But you read in the pages
Of the books of the sages,
And save that dark curtain
They know nothing certain,
Except that dark portal
Which waits all things mortal —
And conqueror or prophet
Comprehend no more of it.
Yet the wind travels so
That it surely must know;
It has gone the world round
Till it came to our ground.
And the hills, which stood fast
Ere the first axe was cast
And have seen so much history,
May have fathomed the mystery.
But the hills on our borders
Are silent old warders,
And the winds which rejoice
No articulate voice.
Oh! ye pure larger airs
Ye will scatter our cares —
Mighty bastions of ours,
Uplift that which cowers,
For behind your grave brows
Are a thousand strong “Nows —”
And the wind has a “must”
In its rude healthy gust.
How it braces and rightens
That wind to make Titans!
Its strenuous wooing
Says, “Up, lads, and doing.”
So leaving the high down
Like giants we stride down;
While the valleys before us
Resound to our chorus.
Having been each a seer
To whom all things were near,
Not resenting or grieving
But simply believing.