Люси Ларком (Lucy Larcom)

From the Mountain-Top

Dear World, looking down from the highest of heights that my feet can attain,
I see not the smoke of your cities, the dust of your highway and plain;
Over all your dull moors and morasses a veil the blue atmosphere folds,
And you might be made wholly of mountains for aught that my vision beholds.

Dear World, I look down, and am grateful that so we all sometimes may stand
Above our own every-day level, and know that our nature is grand
In its possible glory of climbing; in the hill-tops that beckon and bend
So close over every mortal he scarcely can choose but ascend.

Though here, O my World, we miss something—the sweet multitudinous sound
Of leaves in the forest a-flutter, of rivulets lisping around,

The smell of wild pastures in blossom, of fresh earth upturned by the plough—
The uplands and all the green hill-sides lead the way to the mountain's brow.

One world; there is no separation; the same earth above and below;
Up here is the river's cloud-cradle; down there is its fullness and flow;
My voice joins the voice of your millions who upward in weariness grope,
And the hills bear the burden to heaven—humanity's anguish and hope!

Dear World, lying quiet and lovely in a shimmer of gossamer haze,
Beneath the soft films of your mantle I can feel your heart beat as I gaze;
I know you by what you aspire to, by the look that on no face can be
Save in moments of high consecration; you are showing your true self to me.

Dear World, I behold but your largeness; I forget that aught petty or mean
Ever marred the vast sphere of your beauty, over which as a lover I lean;
And not by our flaws will God judge us; His love keeps our noblest in sight:
Dear World, our low life sinks behind us; we look up to His infinite height! 

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