A gentle little sheltered stream,
As pure as pure could be;
Came trickling down the mountain side,
Timid and noiselessly.
In modesty it did its work,
And though so wondrous fair.
The busy world had scarcely known,
The little stream was there.
The mosses grew upon its banks.
The ferns with life were green;
And gracefully the wavelets kissed
The flowers that smiled between.
The beautiful was on its cheek,
And beauty at its side;
So beauty claimed the beautiful.
As bridegroom claims the bride.
Its daily task was sweetly done,
For work was happiness;
The sunlight smiled complacently.
And gave to work success:
While moss and fern, and fragile flower,
Each brought a greeting true;
The little maid beneath the hill,
Brought forth her blessing, too.
For lo! this gentle mountain stream,
While blessing ferns and flowers;
Had slaked the little maiden's thirst
Through the long summer hours.
And when, each day, unconsciously,
Its strength grew greater still;
In grace and beauty flowing on.
It moved the distant mill.
So let my life be hid with God,
So may my heart be true,
And still go forth in quietness.
My little work to do;
And if a fern or humble moss.
My mission be to bless;
Lord, in the small or greater things,
O grant me sweet success!
The mountains in their overwhelming might
Moved me to sadness when I saw them first,
And afterwards they moved me to delight;
Struck harmonies from silent chords which burst
Out into song, a song by memory nursed;
For ever unrenewed by touch or sight
Sleeps the keen magic of each day or night.
In pleasure and in wonder then immersed.
Morn on the mountains! streaks of roseate light
Up the high east athwart the shadows run;
The last low star fades softly out of sight,
And the gray mists go forth to meet the sun.
And now from every sheltering shrub and vine.
And thicket wild with many a tangled spray.
And from the birch and elm and rough-browed pine,
The birds begin to serenade the day.
And now the [roaster] his sleepy harem thrills
With clarion calls, and down the flowery dells;
And from their mossy hollows in the hills
The sheep have started all their tinkling bells.
Lo, the great sun! and nature everywhere
Is all alive, and sweet as she can be;
A thousand happy sounds are in the air,
A thousand by the rivers and the sea.
The dipping oar, the boatman's cheerful horn,
The well-sweep, creaking in its rise and fall;
And pleasantly along the springing corn,
The music of the ploughshare, best of all, -
The insect's little hum, the whir and beat
Of myriad wings, the mower's song so blithe,
The patter of the schoolboy's naked feet.
The joyous ringing of the whetted scythe, -
The low of kine, the falling meadow bar,
The teamster's whistle gay, the droning round
Of the wet mill-wheel, and the tuneful jar
Of hollow milk-pans, swell the general sound.
And by the sea, and in each vale and glen
Are happy sights, as well as sounds to hear,
The world of things, and the great world of men,
All, all is busy, busy far and near.
The ant is hard at work, and everywhere
The bee is balanced on her wings so brown;
And the black spider on her slender stair
Is running down and up, and up and down.
The pine-wood smoke in bright, fantastic curls,
Above the low-roofed homestead sweeps away.
And o'er the groups of merry boys and girls
That pick the berries bright, or rake the hay.
Morn on the mountains! the enkindling skies,
The flowery fields, the meadows, and the sea,
All are so fair, the heart within me cries.
How good, how wondrous good our God must be
The Hills Of The Lord
Poet: Wlliam C Gannett
God ploughed one day with an earthquake,
And drove His furrows deep!
The huddling plains upstarted,
The hills were all aleap!
But that is the mountains' secret,
Age-hidden in their breast;
God's peace is everlasting,"
Are the dream- words of their rest.
He hath made them the haunt of beauty,
The home elect of his grace;
He spreadeth his mornings on them,
His sunsets light their face.
His thunders tread in music
Of footfalls echoing long,
And carry majestic greeting
Around the silent throng.
His winds bring messages to them, -
Wild storm-news from the main;
They sing it down to the valleys
In the love-song of. the rain.
Green tribes from far come trooping,
And over the uplands flock;
He hath woven the zones together
As a robe for his risen rock.
They are nurseries for young rivers,
Nests for his flying cloud,
Homesteads for new-born races,
Masterful, free, and proud.
The people of tired cities
Come up to their shrines and pray;
God freshens again within them,
As He passes by all day.
And lo, I have caught their secret!
The beauty deeper than all!
This faith, - that Life's hard moments,
When the jarring sorrows befall.
Are but God ploughing his mountains;
And those mountains yet shall be
The source of his grace and freshness.
And his peace everlasting to me.
Climb A Little Higher
by Ella Flagg Young
Those who live on the mountain
have a longer day than
those who live in the valley.
Sometimes all we need to
brighten our day is to
climb up a little higher.
Sunrise on the Mountains
Poet: Drusilla Mary Child
The mountain peaks cast off their cloaks of dewy mist,
And stand revealed in the pure cold light of morn;
The shadows creep down the mountain to keep tryst
With night, to watch another day new-born.
The sun arising from his bed of rolling clouds
Imprints a burning kiss upon the virgin snows.
A roseate blush the mountain tops enshrouds,
While slowly with the pearly tint it glows.
Soon the mountain crags are bathed in golden showers,
And glorious soar and stand before God's face.
The bird's song rings about the radiant flowers,
The sun is in the heavens, in his place.
The Upper Road
Poet: Priscilla Leonard
Far lie the mountain crests against the sky;
How shall I find my way so lone, so high,
Without a chart, and with a heavy load?
Pilgrim, one certain Guide is thine at will,
Where the road forks, winding o'er plain and hill,
Whichever way seems easier, choose thou still
The upper road.
By brier and bramble hedged on either hand
Often it climbs within a lonely land
Where 'neath thy stumbling feet sharp stones are strowed.
Yet choose it ever, for beyond it rise
The steadfast peaks that pierce the eternal skies,
They are thy goal; here thy beginning lies,
The upper road.
Comrades may smile, and beckon thee instead,
To take the lower path, so smooth to tread,
Where roses bloom, without a thorn to goad,
A pleasant choice and yet it leads away
From the high mountain tops that front the day.
Turn, pilgrim, turn, and take the wiser way,
The upper road.
On these rough upward paths have climbed the feet
Of all earth's heroes, all her saints, to meet
Reward and joy, at the sure end bestowed.
Their steps have stumbled, too, their burdens weighed
Heavy as thine; yet forward, undismayed,
They pressed before thee. Choose, nor be afraid,
The upper road.
The Mountains of Life
Poet: Catherine Pulsifer
The mountains are majestic
Full of beauty and grace
When we approach the mountain
We feel peace in this place.
A storm brewing in the mountains
Can be a scary place
But when the sun shines on the mountain
We love this beautiful place.
Our lives can feel like a mountain
When things are good we sing
But when the challenges of life appear
We shutter at our feelings.
When faced with overwhelming tasks
Think of moving a mountain
Taking one stone at a time and ask
For help from others to move the stone.
Don't let life overwhelm you
Take one step at a time
And do the best that you can do
And peace will follow you.
So next time you see a mountain top
Admire its beauty
Don't let the challenges of life you face stop
You from getting to the top!
O Ye Mountains
Poet: Ruby Archer
O ye Mountains, robed in grandeur,
Ye have dazed mine eyes with light,
'Till all other things lack beauty,—
Seeming paltry to your might.
Ye have borne me to your summits
Where the air is heavenly pure.
Now the breath in valleys lurking
Is oppressive to endure.
Ye have opened boundless wonders
Where my fearless eyes could rove.
Now I pine for wide horizons
In the limits of a grove.
But the bondage is less galling
Than unfettered liberty
With no wish, no innate power
To declare my spirit free.
Wonderful and Grand
Poet: James G. Clarke
I saw the mountains stand
Silent, wonderful, and grand,
Looking out across the land
When the golden light was falling
On distant dome and spire;
And I heard a low voice calling,
"Come up higher, come up higher,
From the lowland and the mire,
From the mist of earth desire,
From the vain pursuit of pelf,
From the attitude of self;
Come up higher, come up higher."