Sunset on the Bearcamp by John Greenleaf Whittier�(1807�1892) |
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A GOLD fringe on the purpling hem Of hills, the river
runs, As down its long, green valleys falls The last
of summer's suns. Along its tawny gravel-bed,
Broad-flowing, swift, and still, As if its meadow levels
felt The hurry of the hill, Noiseless between its
banks of green, From curve to curve it slips: The
drowsy maple-shadows rest Like fingers on its lips.
A waif from Carroll's wildest hills, Unstoried and
unknown; The ursine legend of its name Prowls on its
banks alone. Yet flowers as fair its slopes adorn As
ever Yarrow knew, Or, under rainy Irish skies, By
Spenser's Mulla grew; And through the gaps of leaning
trees Its mountain-cradle shows,� The gold against the
amethyst, The green against the rose.
Touched by a
light that hath no name, A glory never sung, Aloft on
sky and mountain-wall Are God's great pictures hung.
How changed the summits vast and old! No longer
granite-browed, They melt in rosy mist; the rock Is
softer than the cloud; The valley holds its breath; no
leaf Of all its elms is twirled: The silence of
eternity Seems falling on the world.
The pause
before the breaking seals Of mystery is this: Yon
miracle-play of night and day Makes dumb its witnesses.
What unseen altar crowns the hills That reach up stair on
stair? What eyes look through, what white wings fan
These purple veils of air? What Presence from the
heavenly heights To those of earth stoops down? Not
vainly Hellas dreamed of gods On Ida's snowy crown!
Slow fades the vision of the sky; The golden water
pales; 50 And over all the valley-land A gray-winged
vapor sails. I go the common way of all: The
sunset-fires will burn, The flowers will blow, the river
flow, When I no more return. No whisper from the
mountain-pine Nor lapsing stream shall tell The
stranger, treading where I tread, Of him who loved them
well. |
By John Greenleaf Whittier�(1807�1892)
Listed April 26, 2014 |
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