Poem by Lucy Larcom

From the Mountain-Top

Dear World, looking down from the highest of heights that my feet can attain,
I see not the smoke of your cities, the dust of your highway and plain;
Over all your dull moors and morasses a veil the blue atmosphere folds,
And you might be made wholly of mountains for aught that my vision beholds.

Dear World, I look down, and am grateful that so we all sometimes may stand
Above our own every-day level, and know that our nature is grand
In its possible glory of climbing; in the hill-tops that beckon and bend
So close over every mortal he scarcely can choose but ascend.

Though here, O my World, we miss something—the sweet multitudinous sound
Of leaves in the forest a-flutter, of rivulets lisping around,

The smell of wild pastures in blossom, of fresh earth upturned by the plough—
The uplands and all the green hill-sides lead the way to the mountain's brow.

One world; there is no separation; the same earth above and below;
Up here is the river's cloud-cradle; down there is its fullness and flow;
My voice joins the voice of your millions who upward in weariness grope,
And the hills bear the burden to heaven—humanity's anguish and hope!

Dear World, lying quiet and lovely in a shimmer of gossamer haze,
Beneath the soft films of your mantle I can feel your heart beat as I gaze;
I know you by what you aspire to, by the look that on no face can be
Save in moments of high consecration; you are showing your true self to me.

Dear World, I behold but your largeness; I forget that aught petty or mean
Ever marred the vast sphere of your beauty, over which as a lover I lean;
And not by our flaws will God judge us; His love keeps our noblest in sight:
Dear World, our low life sinks behind us; we look up to His infinite height! 

1. In Sorrow
2. Mistress Hale of Beverly
3. Climbing to Rest
4. “In Remembrance of Me“
5. Beside the Cross

Print

1160 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version