Poems (Procter)/Over the Mountain
IKE dreary prison walls The stern, gray mountains rise,Until their topmost crags Touch the far gloomy skies:One steep and narrow path Winds up the mountain's crest,And from our valley leads Out to the golden West.
OVER THE MOUNTAIN.
IKE dreary prison walls The stern, gray mountains rise,Until their topmost crags Touch the far gloomy skies:One steep and narrow path Winds up the mountain's crest,And from our valley leads Out to the golden West.I dwell here in content, Thankful for tranquil days;And yet my eyes grow dim, As still I gaze and gazeUpon that mountain pass, That leads—or so it seems—To some far happy land, Known in a world of dreams.
And as I watch that path Over the distant hill,A foolish longing comes My heart and soul to fill,A painful, strange desire To break some weary bond;A vague unuttered wish For what might lie beyond!
In that far world unknown, Over that distant hill,May dwell the loved and lost, Lost—yet belovèd still; I have a yearning hope, Half longing, and half pain,That by that mountain pass They may return again.
Space may keep friends apart, Death has a mighty thrall;There is another gulf Harder to cross than all;Yet watching that far road, My heart beats full and fast:If they should come once more, If they should come at last!
See, down the mountain side The silver vapors creep;They hide the rocky cliffs, They hide the craggy steep,They hide the narrow path That comes across the hill:—O foolish longing, cease, O beating Heart, be still!