There is no joy of earth that thrills My bosom like the far-off hills! Th' unchanging hills, that, shadowy, Beckon our mutability To follow and to gaze upon Foundations of the dusk and dawn. Meseems the very heavens are massed Upon their shoulders, vague and vast With all the skyey burden of The winds and clouds and stars above. Lo, how they sit before us, seeing The laws that give all Beauty being! Behold! to them, when dawn is near, The nomads of the air appear, Unfolding crimson camps of day In brilliant bands; then march away; And under burning battlements Of twilight plant their tinted tents. The truth of olden myths, that brood By haunted stream and haunted wood, They see; and feel the happiness Of old at which we only guess: The dreams, the ancients loved and knew, Still as their rocks and trees are true: Not otherwise than presences The tempest and the calm to these: One, shouting on them all the night; Black-limbed and veined with lambent light; The other with the ministry Of all soft things that company With music an embodied form, Giving to solitude the charm Of leaves and waters and the peace Of bird-begotten melodies And who at night cloth still confer With the mild moon, that telleth her Pale tale of lonely love, until Wan images of passion fill The heights with shapes that glimmer by Clad on with sleep and memory.
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