Classic Poem

Their Source is on the mountains,
The Streams of which we drink;
But we must tread the valleys,
If we would reach their brink.
Their Source is on the mountains,
Higher than feet can go;
Yet human lips but touch them
In the valleys, still and low.

Beyond the fields and forests,
Beyond the homes of men,
Beyond the wild-goat's refuge,
Beyond the eagle's ken, —
Beyond the oldest glaciers,
Beyond the loftiest snows,
Beyond the furthest summit
Where earliest morning glows, —

Still climbing, ever climbing,
To reach the Streams we love,
Their music ever with us,
Their Source is still above, —
Beyond heaven's heights of glory,
As beyond earth's heights of snow, —
Yet can our lips but taste them
In the valleys, still and low.

Once, when the heavenly voices
Seemed to call me on their track,
I wondered why some hindrance
Still drew my footsteps back;
Some feeble steps to succour,
Some childish feet to lead,
Some wandering lambs to gather,
Some hungered ones to feed;

Some call of lowly duty,
With low, resistless tone;
Some weight of others' burdens,
Some burden of my own.
But now, though heavenly voices
Still bid my spirit soar,
While my feet tread lowly places,
I wonder thus no more.

Their Source is on the mountains,
The Streams of which we drink;
But only in the valleys
Our lips can reach their brink
Our hearts are on the mountains,
Whither our feet shall go;
But our path is in the valleys,
Where the still waters flow.