Poems (Allen)/The Mountains

by Elizabeth Chase Allen

THE MOUNTAINS.

ITTING alone in this silent room, Blinded with weeping, and sick and strange, I see it, whitening out of the gloom,  A chill and sorrowful mountain range.

Never o'er summit or sweep or slope  A gleam of gladness or pleasure thrills, Never a glimmer of joy or hope  Blesses or brightens these desolate hills.

All the winds which over them blow  Are sighs too bitter to brook control, And all the freshening rains they know  Are hot tears wrung from a stricken soul.

First is a pallid, smileless Face,  Turned forever away from tears; Then two pale Hands, which will keep their place,  Folded from labor through all the years;

Then the Knees, which will never bow,  Never bend or obey again; And then the motionless Feet, which now  Are done with walking in sun and rain.

These are the mountains; and over all  Sinks and settles the winding-sheet, Following sharply each rise and fall  From the pallid face to the quiet feet.

These are the mountains which through the gloom  Rising whitely and cold I see, Sloping into the shadowy tomb,— The mournful hills of mortality.

And of all the dear ones whose souls have crossed  These terrible summits in fear and pain, We only know they are gone and lost,  And never return to our arms again.

So we wander and grope in our earthly clime,  Fettered and cramped by this mortal bond, Watching the mountains from time to-time,  And questioning vainly the dim beyond.