My freedom gained, what fate would be for telling? Still hills and hills beyond would stretch for aye. Peace in this little valley has its dwelling, And that the chase would profit who shall say? For hopes and dear delights, ah, who can near them? Something ungained, the heart with longing fills, And follow though I might I still should hear them, The mocking bells, the Bells from over the Hills. IN TOWN The long street where the people go-- It is not like the paths I know, Yet can I find the morning there, All crystal light and early air. Sharp-angled roofs in slanting sun Grow dimmer as they slope and blend, Until they crowd no more, and one May see his mountains at the end. Then, when the day has had her will, I lean upon my window-sill, And watch them floating, clean and high-- My sunset ships across the sky. MOODS I Sweet grasses, tasseled, bent and tall; And sweet last light across the meadow-- The wind has tangled, left them all In webs of green, in silver shadow. And to your speech my heart replies, Still silvering to each word that passes, Until a tangled joy it lies, A shining web of wind-blown grasses. II A memory of tears that day, Of small and piteous lives misused: The fallen bird we could not save, The butterfly we helped--and bruised. And last, to fill repentant eyes, Most bright and frail of winged things-- A moment’s faith, an hour’s love, Grieving the dust with broken wings. A MISTY MORNING Low-arched above me as I moved the hollowed air was clear; Beyond was whiteness dim and strange, and spectral shapes drew near. Upon the little shore of brown that touched the misty sea, Upon the shadowy borderland, one paused and looked at me; Then hurried on with greeting smile and sudden vivid face: A friend had started into life within my magic space! Into the world of ghosts again I watched him fade away-- First black he was, then dim he was, then merged in formless grey. TWO SONGS You love the chant of green, The low-voiced trees, the meadow’s monotone. O friend of mine, it is for these you pray. This alien land must call unheard, unseen, While one beloved note your heart has known, To hunger for it, half a world away. Come with me to my height, And stand at sunset when the winds are still, Watching the hollow valleys brim with light, The red and brown and yellow hills--they shout, And on the shoulders of the marching host The bayonets are gleaming points of white.