Page:Poems Whitney.djvu/175

We listen through their clinging mist,
 For hymns in far-off childhood heard;
 Old hymns of faith, from those that guard
The snow and the sacred amethyst.

Thou dost not feel their music cease,
 When at thy feet, some little bloom
 Smiles suddenly from covert gloom,
And minds thee of a lowlier peace.

Those threaded sunbeams of the wood,
 The wildering rivulets, merrily
 Kiss thine intruding feet and flee,
As careless of thy higher mood.

Gold green the blessed valleys lie;
 By giant shadows now embraced,
 And now with sunbeams interlaced,
And panting neath the happy sky.