E has fallen in love with the mountains:
How should he not be blest?
Him the high canyon fountains
Feed with coolness and rest;
Him the gray mists with pleasure
About the day's release;
The sleepy long noons with leisure;
And the eerie dawns with peace.
Remote, steel-gray and scornful
The peaks; above them glides
Dawn, and purples the mournful
Pines on the canyon sides;
Day, and the ferny fountains
Are full and crystal-dim;
And he who has loved the mountains,
How should they not love him?
White be the fair young maiden,
And comely, without stain,
Her lover sorrow-laden
Will look to her in vain,
Unhelped; for she is human,
She will quietly pass by,
Like every other woman
Who has lived under the sky.
Good be the friend, and grateful
For kindness of old,
Yet will his eyes turn hateful,
Yet his heart's love burn cold.
Build house-walls of cut clover;
Lean on a fennel staff;
Put faith in friend or lover,
And hear the high Fates laugh.
Then to the far hill-ridges
Lift up your eyes, and slake
Your thirst among the sedges
That lock a mountain lake.
Your changèd fates bewail not:--
Is mortal guile now proved?
But the mountains move not, fail not,
Never in vain beloved.
