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Poem by Arthur Guiterman
I never loved your plains!-- Your gentle valleys, Your drowsy country lanes And pleachéd alleys. I want my hills! -- the trail That scorns the hollow.-- Up, up the ragged shale Where few will follow, Up, over wooded crest And mossy bowlder With strong thigh, heaving chest, And swinging shoulder, So let me hold my way, By nothing halted, Until, at close of day, I stand, exalted, High on my hills of dream-- Dear hills that know me! And then, how fair will seem The lands below me, How pure, at vesper-time, The far bells chiming! God, give me hills to climb, And strength for climbing!
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