Classic Poem

The hills shall miss him — while the pines,
Through which he wandered o'er the slopes,
Shall ask the nodding columbines
Of him — the Man of Living Hopes.

He loved the mountains — when came Spring
He turned unto the greening way,
And, as one hoards a priceless thing,
He counted grudgingly each day.

The heights were his — let those who would
Seek ease in vales stretched far beneath;
Where gleams yon gaunt peak's snowy hood
His camp-fire smoke curled like a wreath.

His quest was vain — and yet who knows
How little meant the gold he sought;
Enough for him Fall's golden glows,
And colors in the sunset wrought.