Thence up a winding valley of grand views--
Hill-guarded--firs and rocks upon the hills,
And here and there a solitary pine
Majestic--silent--mourns its slaughtered kin,
Like the last warrior of some tawny tribe
Returned from sunset mountains to behold
Once more the spot where his brave fathers sleep.
The farms along the valley stretch away
On either hand upon the rugged hills--
Walled into fields. Tall elms and willow-trees
Huge-trunked and ivy-hung stand sentinel
Along the roadway walls--storm-wrinkled trees
Planted by men who slumber on the hills.
Amid such scenes all day we rolled along,
And as the shadows of the western hills
Across the valley crept and climbed the slopes,
The sunset blazed their hazy tops and fell
Upon the emerald like a mist of gold.
And at that hour I reached my journey's end.
The village is a gem among the hills--
Tall, towering hills that reach into the blue.
One grand old mountain-cone looms on the left
Far up toward heaven, and all around are hills.
The river winds among the leafy hills
Adown the meadowy dale; a shade of elms
And willows fringe it. In this lap of hills
Cluster the happy homes of men content
To let the great world worry as it will.
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