III.

So far and strange those misty hills! so near And intimate the little, shady nook, The skies reflected in the merry brook— Those distant heights so lonely and austere! Scarce e’en the busy mowers of the field Lifted their eyes to those dim gates of blue Where all their gathered harvest must pass through, Its grass and stubble be one day revealed. As grew the day, more clear the summits grew; Springing from shadow, radiant waterfalls Flung trails of sunshine o’er the stern rock-walls— Such sunshine as the valley never knew! Paled the June roses, fading in my hand, Tarnished the lowland river’s golden sand!