Poems (Larcom)/My Mountain
MY MOUNTAIN.
I SHUT my eyes in the snow-fall And dream a dream of the hills. The sweep of a host of mountains, The flash of a hundred rills,
For a moment they crowd my vision; Then, moving in troops along, They leave me one still mountain-picture, The murmur of one river's song.
'T is the musical Pemigewasset, That sings to the hemlock trees Of the pines on the Profile Mountain, Of the stony Face that sees,
Far down in the vast rock-hollows The waterfall of the Flume, The blithe cascade of the Basin, And the deep Pool's lonely gloom.
All night, from the cottage-window I can hear the river's tune; But the hushed air gives no answer Save the hemlocks' sullen rune.
A lamb's bleat breaks through the stillness, And into the heart of night.—Afar and around, the mountains, Veiled watchers, expect the light.
Then up comes the radiant morning To smile on their vigils grand. Still muffled in cloudy mantles Do their stately ranges stand?
It is not the lofty Haystacks Piled up by the great Notch-Gate, Nor the glow of the Cannon Mountain, That the Dawn and I await,
To loom out of northern vapors; But a shadow, a pencilled line, That grows to an edge of opal Where earth-light and heaven-light shine.
Now rose-tints bloom from the purple; Now the blue climbs over the green; Now, bright in its bath of sunshine, The whole grand Shape is seen.
Is it one, or unnumbered summits,— The Vision so high, so fair, Hanging over the singing River In the magical depths of air?
Ask not the name of my mountain! Let it rise in its grandeur lone; Be it one of a mighty thousand, Or a thousand blent in one.
Would a name evoke new splendor From its wrapping and folds of light, Or a line of the weird rock-writing Make plainer to mortal sight?
You have lived and learnt this marvel: That the holiest joy that came From its beautiful heaven to bless you, ([' Nor needed nor found a name.
Enough, on the brink of the river Looking up and away, to know That the Hill loves the Pemigewasset, And broods o'er its murmurous flow.
Perhaps, if the Campton meadows Should attract your pilgrim feet Up the summer road to the mountains, You may chance my dream to meet:—
Either mine, or one more wondrous. Or perhaps you will look, and say You behold only rocks and sunshine, Be it dying or birth of day.
Though you find but the stones that build it, I shall see through the snow-fall still, Hanging over the Pemigewasset, My glorified, dream-crowned Hill.