High on the mountain top The sun and snow Were wed. Thou art their child, And free hast fled To far-off worlds below With impulse wild. Snow-pure, yet vital as the sun Thy heart is. Thou carolest the dream, The fond, eternal dream Of Mother Nature, ever-loving one. Thou art so pulsing near The earth and stone, Thy listening may hear The thrilling tone Of all creation's under-song. Sing loud, sing long The cadence to mine ear— I love it! The mountain spirits live And move in joy In thy light motion. The wild flowers give Their delicate, pure limbs Unto thy spray to lave. They crave Thy pool that brims Invigorant. Upon the rocks— Great castles of the storm-kings— Thy pretty shocks Go misting In rainbow banners bright. Now mingled day and night Of shadow-hearted canon A moment holds thee All unresisting, And roughly folds thee In arms of stone. On, swift, impetuous, Light leaping Out of the narrow channel Unto the broad sun-sea, Heedless of weeping In the mosses far behind. O Bright, O Pure, O Free! Brother of Cloud and Wind! Thou fling'st a jeweled gauntlet To the aspen and the pine. Look how the boulders kneel To quaff thy brightness. Pity them—ne'er to feel Thy wayward lightness. Like a young deer Thy springing leap Bids fear Defiance. Now broadening languorously Thy lucent breast Gives mirror to a flight of clouds And pallid daylight moon. A lightsome bridge From ridge to ridge Bounds playfully above thee, And pauses there entranced Perforce to love thee. O Mountain Stream, Fleet as a dream, Wild as a wish all unsubdued,— Thy power to sing Thy thought, To find release For impulse in thee. Alone doth bring What long I sought— A conquering sense of peace!
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