Verse > John Greenleaf Whittier > The Poetical Works in Four Volumes
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John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892).  The Poetical Works in Four Volumes.  1892.
 
Poems of Nature
Sunset on the Bearcamp
 
A GOLD fringe on the purpling hem
  Of hills the river runs,
As down its long, green valley falls
  The last of summer’s suns.
Along its tawny gravel-bed        5
  Broad-flowing, swift, and still,
As if its meadow levels felt
  The hurry of the hill,
Noiseless between its banks of green
  From curve to curve it slips;        10
The drowsy maple-shadows rest
  Like fingers on its lips.
 
A waif from Carroll’s wildest hills,
  Unstoried and unknown;
The ursine legend of its name        15
  Prowls on its banks alone.
Yet flowers as fair its slopes adorn
  As ever Yarrow knew,
Or, under rainy Irish skies,
  By Spenser’s Mulla grew;        20
And through the gaps of leaning trees
  Its mountain cradle shows:
The gold against the amethyst,
  The green against the rose.
 
Touched by a light that hath no name,        25
  A glory never sung,
Aloft on sky and mountain wall
  Are God’s great pictures hung.
How changed the summits vast and old!
  No longer granite-browed,        30
They melt in rosy mist; the rock
  Is softer than the cloud;
The valley holds its breath; no leaf
  Of all its elms is twirled:
The silence of eternity        35
  Seems falling on the world.
 
The pause before the breaking seals
  Of mystery is this;
Yon miracle-play of night and day
  Makes dumb its witnesses.        40
What unseen altar crowns the hills
  That reach up stair on stair?
What eyes look through, what white wings fan
  These purple veils of air?
What Presence from the heavenly heights        45
  To those of earth stoops down?
Not vainly Hellas dreamed of gods
  On Ida’s snowy crown!
 
Slow fades the vision of the sky,
  The golden water pales,        50
And over all the valley-land
  A gray-winged vapor sails.
I go the common way of all;
  The sunset fires will burn,
The flowers will blow, the river flow,        55
  When I no more return.
No whisper from the mountain pine
  Nor lapsing stream shall tell
The stranger, treading where I tread,
  Of him who loved them well.        60
 
But beauty seen is never lost,
  God’s colors all are fast;
The glory of this sunset heaven
  Into my soul has passed,
A sense of gladness unconfined        65
  To mortal date or clime;
As the soul liveth, it shall live
  Beyond the years of time.
Beside the mystic asphodels
  Shall bloom the home-born flowers,        70
And new horizons flush and glow
  With sunset hues of ours.
 
Farewell! these smiling hills must wear
  Too soon their wintry frown,
And snow-cold winds from off them shake        75
  The maple’s red leaves down.
But I shall see a summer sun
  Still setting broad and low;
The mountain slopes shall blush and bloom,
  The golden water flow.        80
A lover’s claim is mine on all
  I see to have and hold,—
The rose-light of perpetual hills,
  And sunsets never cold!

  1876.
 
 
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