Poems (Follen)/The Berkshire Hills

by Eliza Lee Cabot Follen

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.