Classic Poem

Up from the sea the white mists roll,
Soft as the robes a dancer sways,
Pure as the dreams that swathe the soul
Of a laughing child, at peace always.

The blue-veined hills at the north they hide
With a veil that hangs like filmy gauze,
And they lower and lift and fling aside
Their matchless drapery, without pause.

Grange and meadow and dyke below
Lie in the sun in calm content,
Hither and thither like wraiths they go,
But their shadowy grace on the cliffs is spent.

Up from the sea of silence sweep
Beautiful visions to the soul,
Thoughts that rest on the mountain steep
But have no power o'er the plain to roll;

Man is the child of field or grange,
So we say when our eyes are blind;
But the blue-veined hills we all shall range
And truths the white mists are, shall find.