147. The Joy of the Hills by Edwin Markham. Rittenhouse, Jessie B., ed. 1917. The Little Book of Modern Verse

Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Little Book of Modern Verse. 1917.

147. The Joy of the Hills

By Edwin Markham


I RIDE on the mountain tops, I ride;
I have found my life and am satisfied.
Onward I ride in the blowing oats,
Checking the field-lark’s rippling notes—
Lightly I sweep	5
From steep to steep:
Over my head through the branches high
Come glimpses of a rushing sky;
The tall oats brush my horse’s flanks;
Wild poppies crowd on the sunny banks;	10
A bee booms out of the scented grass;
A jay laughs with me as I pass.

I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forget
Life’s board of regret—
All the terror and pain	15
Of the chafing chain.
Grind on, O cities, grind:
I leave you a blur behind.
I am lifted elate—the skies expand:
Here the world’s heaped gold is a pile of sand.	20
Let them weary and work in their narrow walls:
I ride with the voices of waterfalls!

I swing on as one in a dream—I swing
Down the airy hollows, I shout, I sing!
The world is gone like an empty word:	25
My body’s a bough in the wind, my heart a bird!