HOW THE MOUNTAINS CAME TO BE

A bird once came and said to me,

“Hear how the mountains came to be.

An angel from his crystal sphere

Fell to the earth. A chilly fear

Shot thro’ his wings from tip to tip,

For there was neither boat nor ship,

Mountain nor stream, nor maid nor man,

Far as the angel's eye could scan;

Dead flatness far as he could see

Before the mountains came to be.

He stretched his wings to fly away,

But round his feet the oozy clay

Gripped fast, and held him to the ground.

He stretched and strove until a sound

Went thro’ him from he knew not where

And said,‘ The only way is prayer.’

He dropped his wings and raised his eyes,

And sent his soul into the skies.

He prayed and prayed, and as he prayed

A wind among his plumage played

And bore him upward toward his sphere.

Around his feet from far and near

There came a sound that seemed to say,

‘ Pray on! pray on! we too would pray.

Thy prayer has touched the sleeping Powers:

Pray on, thy prayer shall yet be ours;

We too have wings that pine for flight,

We too have eyes that long for light.’

Upward he moved, and still his eyes

Were fastened on the distant skies,

And as he rose toward heaven dim

He drew the earth up after him.

About his feet the oozy clay

Gripped fast, but could not stop or stay

His course, till on his skyey stair

He paused beyond the need for prayer,

While from the air beneath, around,

There rose a tumult of glad sound.

The angel turned the sound to seek,

And lo! his foot was on a peak

That fell away to where the world

Lay like a painted flag unfurled

And shaken out from sea to sea,—

And thus the mountains came to be.”

So said the bird, and what the masque

Of meaning hid, I meant to ask;

But off he flew before I knew —

And yet I think the tale is true

If one could only hear aright,

And see with something more than sight.