Sierra Club Bulletin. 



BLUE HILLS. 



Blue hills beneath the haze 

 That broods o'er distant ways, 

 Whether ye may not hold 

 Secrets more dear than gold, — 

 This is the ever new 

 Puzzle within your blue. 



Is't not a softer sun 



Whose smiles yon hills have won? 



Is't not a sweeter air 



That folds the fields so fair? 



Is't not a finer rest 



That I so fain would test? 



The far thing beckons most, 

 The near becomes the lost. 

 Not what we have is worth. 

 But that which has no birth 

 Or breath within the ken 

 Of transitory men. 



— Charles Goodrich Whiting. 



