| |
| I SHUT my eyes in the snow-fall | |
| And dream a dream of the hills. | |
| The sweep of a host of mountains, | |
| The flash of a hundred rills, | |
| |
| For a moment they crowd my vision; | 5 |
| Then, moving in troops along, | |
| They leave me one still mountain-picture, | |
| The murmur of one river’s song. | |
| |
| ’T is the musical Pemigewasset, | |
| That sings to the hemlock-trees | 10 |
| Of the pines on the Profile Mountain, | |
| Of the stony Face that sees, | |
| |
| Far down in the vast rock-hollows | |
| The waterfall of the Flume, | |
| The blithe cascade of the Basin, | 15 |
| And the deep Pool’s lonely gloom. | |
| |
| All night, from the cottage-window | |
| I can hear the river’s tune; | |
| But the hushed air gives no answer | |
| Save the hemlocks’ sullen rune. | 20 |
| |
| A lamb’s bleat breaks through the stillness, | |
| And into the heart of night.— | |
| Afar and around, the mountains, | |
| Veiled watchers, expect the light. | |
| |
| Then up comes the radiant morning | 25 |
| To smile on their vigils grand; | |
| Still muffled in cloudy mantles | |
| Do their stately ranges stand? | |
| |
| It is not the lofty Haystacks | |
| Piled up by the great Notch-Gate, | 30 |
| Nor the glow of the Cannon Mountain, | |
| That the Dawn and I await, | |
| |
| To loom out of northern vapors; | |
| But a shadow, a pencilled line, | |
| That grows to an edge of opal | 35 |
| Where earth-light and heaven-light shine. | |
| |
| Now rose-tints bloom from the purple; | |
| Now the blue climbs over the green; | |
| Now, bright in its bath of sunshine, | |
| The whole grand Shape is seen. | 40 |
| |
| Is it one, or unnumbered summits,— | |
| The Vision so high, so fair, | |
| Hanging over the singing River | |
| In the magical depths of air? | |
| |
| Ask not the name of my mountain! | 45 |
| Let it rise in its grandeur lone; | |
| Be it one of a mighty thousand, | |
| Or a thousand blent in one. | |
| |
| Would a name evoke new splendor | |
| From its wrapping and folds of light, | 50 |
| Or a line of the weird rock-writing | |
| Make plainer to mortal sight? | |
| |
| You have lived and learnt this marvel: | |
| That the holiest joy that came | |
| From its beautiful heaven to bless you, | 55 |
| Nor needed nor found a name. | |
| |
| Enough, on the brink of the river | |
| Looking up and away, to know | |
| That the Hill loves the Pemigewasset | |
| And broods o’er its murmurous flow. | 60 |
| |
| Perhaps, if the Campton meadows | |
| Should attract your pilgrim feet | |
| Up the summer road to the mountains, | |
| You may chance my dream to meet:— | |
| |
| Either mine, or one more wondrous. | 65 |
| Or perhaps you will look, and say | |
| You behold only rocks and sunshine, | |
| Be it dying or birth of day. | |
| |
| Though you find but the stones that build it, | |
| I shall see through the snow-fall still, | 70 |
| Hanging over the Pemigewasset, | |
| My glorified, dream-crowned Hill. | |
| |
