There is a hill of hills That holds my heart on high and stills All other sound Than joy. Robins and thrushes, whip-poor-wills And morning-sparrows sing it round With echoes. Waterfalls abound And many streams convoy The breath of music. I have found A hill-path rising sudden on a city-street, Out of a quarrel, out of black despair, And climbed it with my winged feet. It hurries me above All this illusion, all these ills, It rises quickly to the shining air. .... Celia, I hear you on the hill of hills, Announcing love. And O my citizen, perhaps the few Whom I shall tell of you Will see with me your beauty who are dead, Will hear with me your voice and what it said! Let but a line of mine, A single one, Be made to shine With your whole-heartedness as with the sun, And I shall so consign Your touch to younger and yet younger hands, That they shall carry beauty through more lands Than ever Helen laid her touch upon. In your new world I see The immigrants arriving from the ships.... O Celia, my democracy, My destiny, Beauty has had its answer on your lips!