Oracles

I70 THE HILLS Though the desolate waste be enchaunted By a spell that bewilders and chills, To me it is granted to worship the haunted Delight of the hills. To me all the blossoms are seedless, Yet big with all manner of fruit : And a voice in the waste is needless Since my soul in its splendour is mute. Though the height of the hill be deserted, The soul of a man has its mate ; With the wide sky skirted his heart is reverted To commune with Fate. Far flings out the spur to the sunset ; Its help to the hope of the sun That all be unfolded if one set, That none be apart from the One ; And the sweep of the wings of the weather, Marked bright with the silvery ghylls For flickering feather, brings all things together To nest in the hills. Like a great bird poised in the æther, The mountain keeps watch over earth, On the child that lies sleeping beneath her Wild-eyed from a terrible birth. But by noise of the world unshaken, By dance of the world not bedinned, The hill bides forsaken, yet only to waken Her lover, the wind.