Collected Works (Vol. II)

THE HILLS 57 So witless and aimless and formless I count the Creator to be; Not strong as who rides on the stormless And tames the untamable sea. But motion and action distorted Are marks of the paths He hath trod. Hated or courted, aided or thwarted :— Lo, He is your God! But mine in the silence abideth ; Her strength is the strength of rest ; Not on thunders or clouds She rideth But draweth me down to Her breast : No maker of men, but dissolving Their life from its burden of ills, Ever resolving the circle revolving To peace of the hills. And dark is Her breast and unlighted ; But a warm sweet scent is expressed, And a rose as of sunset excited In the strength of Her sunless breast. Her love is like pain, but enchanted : Her kiss is an opiate breath Amorously panted : Her fervours last granted Are sorrow, and death. Nor death as ye name in derision The change to a cycle of pain, To a cycle of joy as a vision Ye chase, and may capture in vain. Endeth you peace, and your change is Like the change in a measure that shrills And slackens and ranges; your passion estranges The love of the hills ! Nay ! death is a portal of passing To miseries other but sure. Yet the snow on the hills amassing The wind of an hour may endure ; But as day after day grows the summer The crystals melt one after one. The hill—shall they numb her? overcome her ? Demand of the sun! Their frost That uttermost death of my lady Revealed in the heart of the range Is as light in the groves long shady As peace in the halls of change. The web of the world is rended ; Stayed are the causal mills ; Time is ended ; space unextended. An end of the hills ! ,