Classic Poem

The hills are white, but not with snow:
— They are as pale in summer time,
For herb or grass may never grow
— Upon their slopes of lime.

Within the circle of the hills
— A ring, all flowering in a round,
An orchard-ring of almond fills
— The plot of stony ground.

More fair than happier trees, I think,
— Grown in well-watered pasture land
These parched and stunted branches, pink
— Above the stones and sand.

O white, austere, ideal place,
— Where very few will care to come,
Where spring hath lost the waving grace
— She wears for us at home!

Fain would I sit and watch for hours
— The holy whiteness of thy hills,
Their wreath of pale auroral flowers,
— Their peace the silence fills.

A place of secret peace thou art,
— Such peace as in an hour of pain
One moment fills the amazed heart,
— And never comes again.