I stood in a valley; above me
Uprose a mighty hill;
The air was vibrant with music
Of insect, bird, and rill.
The flowers among the grasses
About my weary feet
Swung all their tiny censers,
Till perfume, heavy-sweet,
Was shed abroad in the sunlight
And wafted to and fro,
While droning bees at the altar
Their Aves chanted low.
A soft breeze touched my forehead,
And whispered, “Peace, be still!”
But ever above me towered
That silent, awful hill,
Whose peaks in mists were hidden,
Whose slopes were brown and bare;
And yet, as I gazed, I murmured,
“O God! If I were there!”
For I knew that the peace of the valley
Was never meant for me;
And I longed for the mountain summit,—
Its pure winds blowing free,
Its life of strength and vigor,
Its thoughts of the good and true,
Its steadfast crags of granite
In the far-off, heavenly blue.
I stand in the valley, and ever
I gaze at the mountain bare,
And I long for a hand to help me—
O God! That I were there!