Epilogue
A MONG these quiet hills—steeped in the glamour
Of cloud-flecked sunlight—is there peace serene?
Among these quiet hills—far from the clamour,
The strife and tumult that pervade life's scene,
The petty tyrannies of mortals mean,
Does peace abide here, where the wild bird's call
Is answered by the exulting waterfall?
O, to be steadfast as that peak whose granite
Head is upheaved to meet all gathering foes,
Though swift storms strike, though livid lightnings span it,
Though scourged by hail and bound by smothering snows,
Immovable it meets all coming woes,
Immovable and steadfast and sublime,
And heedless of the hurrying wings of time.
But we by futile cares are worn and fretted,
We bow our heads before the storms of life,
In fate's strong springes we are coiled and netted
And hate provokes us to ignoble strife,
And all our lives with toil and sin are rife,
In painful dread we draw our quivering breath,
Life's sleep is shadowed by the dream of death.
We fly to nature from life's senseless riot,
We crave among the hills to be alone,
We seek in nature's shrine the balm of quiet,
We bow our heads before her wood and stone,
We petty gods—we who have overthrown
All obstacles—have chained the sleepless sea,
And hold the realms of earth and air in fee.
We fly to nature from the world's commotion,
For we are branded with the curse of Cain,
We, who have conquered earth and air and ocean,
Still struggle with our lusts and hates in vain,
The fruit our fathers ate still brings us pain,
And though new cells of knowledge we explore,
Ultimate truth still bolts and bars her door.
We fly to nature, for our flesh must perish—
Be one with nature's dust and wood and stone;
Our flesh must crumble, but the light we cherish,
The torch, survives its bearer who has gone,
For we pass only that we may pass on:
Thought still survives—what though our race be run,
Thought lives and grows—eternal as the sun.
The sun descends and trails his clouds of glory,
The evening shadows flock on hill and plain;
The sun descends and ends day's little story,
Rules off the blotted compt of loss or gain,
Of love and hate, of joy and grief and pain.
Now healing darkness binds day's burning scars;
The sun is set: light gone; but night hath stars.
Of cloud-flecked sunlight—is there peace serene?
Among these quiet hills—far from the clamour,
The strife and tumult that pervade life's scene,
The petty tyrannies of mortals mean,
Does peace abide here, where the wild bird's call
Is answered by the exulting waterfall?
O, to be steadfast as that peak whose granite
Head is upheaved to meet all gathering foes,
Though swift storms strike, though livid lightnings span it,
Though scourged by hail and bound by smothering snows,
Immovable it meets all coming woes,
Immovable and steadfast and sublime,
And heedless of the hurrying wings of time.
But we by futile cares are worn and fretted,
We bow our heads before the storms of life,
In fate's strong springes we are coiled and netted
And hate provokes us to ignoble strife,
And all our lives with toil and sin are rife,
In painful dread we draw our quivering breath,
Life's sleep is shadowed by the dream of death.
We fly to nature from life's senseless riot,
We crave among the hills to be alone,
We seek in nature's shrine the balm of quiet,
We bow our heads before her wood and stone,
We petty gods—we who have overthrown
All obstacles—have chained the sleepless sea,
And hold the realms of earth and air in fee.
We fly to nature from the world's commotion,
For we are branded with the curse of Cain,
We, who have conquered earth and air and ocean,
Still struggle with our lusts and hates in vain,
The fruit our fathers ate still brings us pain,
And though new cells of knowledge we explore,
Ultimate truth still bolts and bars her door.
We fly to nature, for our flesh must perish—
Be one with nature's dust and wood and stone;
Our flesh must crumble, but the light we cherish,
The torch, survives its bearer who has gone,
For we pass only that we may pass on:
Thought still survives—what though our race be run,
Thought lives and grows—eternal as the sun.
The sun descends and trails his clouds of glory,
The evening shadows flock on hill and plain;
The sun descends and ends day's little story,
Rules off the blotted compt of loss or gain,
Of love and hate, of joy and grief and pain.
Now healing darkness binds day's burning scars;
The sun is set: light gone; but night hath stars.
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