Poems (Follen)/The Berkshire Hills
THE BERKSHIRE HILLS.
Fly to the hills, if thy spirit is weary; Fly to the hills, if life has grown dreary; In their green recesses is heard a voice That speaks of gladness, and cries Rejoice!
If faith and hope are growing dim,Fly to the mountains,—they tell of Him Who spake, and they all in their order stood; Of Him who pronounced that all was good.
Go, troubled soul, to the lonely hill, Commune with the Spirit there, and be still; Look down from the fearful, dizzy height,And thy soul shall swell with a strange delight.
Drink to the depths of thy inmost soul,The solemn joy when the thunders roll; In silence join the glorious song,As it echoes, reechoes, and murmurs along.
Now it leaps, as in play, from hill to hill; Now afar off, for a moment is still; And now a full chord, it bursts forth again, And fills with its music, each valley and glen.
Go forth when the daylight is passing away, And catch from the hill-tops the sun's parting ray; Of a world of bliss it will seem to tell; It is bright as a dying saint's farewell.
Dost thou seek for friends,—to the hills repair; For love and goodness flourish there: 'Mong the Berkshire hills are friends I know,Whose hearts can make a heaven below.