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Poem by 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! Lucy Larcom Lucy Larcom's other poems: 1221 Views |
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