The Cry of the Hillborn

I am homesick for the mountains —

My heroic mother hills —

And the longing that is on me

No solace ever stills.

I would climb to brooding summits

With their old untarnished dreams,

Cool my heart in forest shadows

To the lull of falling streams;

Hear the innocence of aspens

That babble in the breeze,

And the fragrant sudden showers

That patter on the trees.

I am lonely for my thrushes

In their hermitage withdrawn,

Toning the quiet transports

Of twilight and of dawn.

I need the pure, strong mornings,

When the soul of day is still,

With the touch of frost that kindles

The scarlet on the hill;

Lone trails and winding woodroads

To outlooks wild and high,

And the pale moon waiting sundown

Where ledges cut the sky.

I dream of upland clearings

Where cones of sumac burn,

And gaunt and gray-mossed boulders

Lie deep in beds of fern;

The gray and mottled beeches,

The birches’ satin sheen,

The majesty of hemlocks

Crowning the blue ravine.

My eyes dim for the skyline

Where purple peaks aspire,

And the forges of the sunset

Flare up in golden fire.

There crests look down unheeding

And see the great winds blow,

Tossing the huddled tree-tops

In gorges far below;

Where cloud-mists from the warm earth

Roll up about their knees,

And hang their filmy tatters

Like prayers upon the trees.

I cry for night-blue shadows

On plain and hill and dome,—

The spell of old enchantments,

The sorcery of home.