Page:Poems Allen.djvu/73

THE MOUNTAINS.

ITTING alone in this silent room,
 Blinded with weeping, and sick and strange,
I see it, whitening out of the gloom,
 A chill and sorrowful mountain range.

Never o'er summit or sweep or slope
 A gleam of gladness or pleasure thrills,
Never a glimmer of joy or hope
 Blesses or brightens these desolate hills.

All the winds which over them blow
 Are sighs too bitter to brook control,
And all the freshening rains they know
 Are hot tears wrung from a stricken soul.

First is a pallid, smileless Face,
 Turned forever away from tears;
Then two pale Hands, which will keep their place,
 Folded from labor through all the years;