To the Dawn on the hill-tops ...
The Vision of Spring!
The hearts of men are like mine,
it must laugh and weep with them.
There is so much in us is
Love lifts us to heaven
that is ours.
We die for home and country; dying thus,
The welfare of our land shall live with us.
I can believe it, that we each do have
One opportunity, and on it hangs
It may be all.
Priests indeed may prate
This side o' death, but 'yond the bourne
Their service fails.
The sweet, fresh, red rose
of a maiden's heart
That opes in the dewy
ecstasy of love.
The silent blue haze in the noonday hills
Is deep with glory, as the very air
Were an alembic.
No Christian burial? Ah, he'll sleep as sound
As the old Jew who, by Beth-Peor, had
God for a sexton.
Jove himself moves in the abyss
As in the heights he goes;
The God is so in all that is,
Yet is what no one knows.