MOUNTAIN AND VALLEY. 



In the hollow of the hills; 

 Mountain-ringed, whose grandeur fills 

 All the eye with rugged grace, 

 Every lovely thing has place. 

 White clouds trail their shadows dim 

 Over every far peak's rim. 

 Vaporous barges, misty-prowed, 

 Through the azure sky-sea crowd. - 



Or the starry fleets at night 

 Moor awhile their shallops bright, 

 Spangling all the deeps o'erhead, 

 By some unseen pilot stayed. 

 Here the mist-wreath on the hill 

 Creeping higher, white and still. 

 Towers above the darkening dome, 

 Till it finds in clouds a home. 



In this emerald chalice wide, 



Sunlight pours its glory-tide. 



Every breeze with fragrance fraught. 



In this valley-vase is caught. 



Here sweet, fragile flowers hide deep; 



And the pine-clans climb the steep. 



Here in hyacynthine shades 



Flutes the thrush in ferny glades. 



Cataracts in the gorges gleam, 

 Rushing from the ice-cold stream. 

 Vernal-vestured trees are stirred 

 When leaf-music faint is heard. 

 Aspens poise their wind-swept leaves, 

 And a miserere grieves. 

 Wild and tender beauty fills 

 All the hollow of the hills. 



— Mrs." Merrill E. Gates. 



