Poems (Bushnell)/The Mountain's Meadow

by Frances Louisa Bushnell

VII
THE MOUNTAIN'S MEADOW

Meadow lying far below me,
 Green between the silver birches,
Does the little streamlet know thee,
 That thy verdure softly searches?

Ever where it listeth gliding,
 Idling through thy bright expanses;
Dark behind the alders hiding,
 In the noon's delicious trances;

Through the honeyed clover creeping,
 Drinking sweetness without measure;
'Mid thy reedy grasses sleeping,
 Overfull of easy pleasure;

Knowing all thy sunny spaces,
 All thy blossoms breathing sweetly,
All thy cool and hidden places—
 Could it know thee more completely?

Ah! none ever won by dreaming
 Secret such as thine, fair meadow;
But the mountains, heavenward gleaming,
 Touch and know thee with their shadow.

They have soared into the wonder
 Of the noon with giant daring
To the heat, the storm, the thunder,
 Each its mighty forehead baring.

Now, that long endurance over,
 In their glorious leisure leaning
Grandly down, they may discover
 Something of thy deepest meaning.

Thou art coolness after burning;
 Thou art fullness after bareness;
Sweet possession, after yearning;
 After storms, an open fairness.

Thou art stillness after striving;
 Crowned rest, to high endeavor,
After anguish, deep reviving;
 After death, the calm Forever.