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Poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay

The Little Hill

Oh, here the air is sweet and still,
And softs the grass to lie on;
And far aways the little hill
They took for Christ to die on.

And theres a hill across the brook,
And down the brooks another;
But, oh, the little hill they took,
I think I am its mother!

The moon that saw Gethsemane,
I watch it rise and set:
It has so many things to see,
They help it to forget.

But little hills that sit at home
So many hundred years,
Remember Greece, remember Rome,
Remember Marys tears.

And far away in Palestine,
Sadder than any other,
Grieves still the hill that I call mine,
I think I am its mother!

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Edna St. Vincent Millay's other poems:
  1. The Return from Town
  2. To S. M.
  3. Journey
  4. When the Year Grows Old
  5. Inland

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