The Hills

The hills are crying from the fields to me, And calling me with music from a choir Of waters in their woods where I can see The bloom unfolded on the whins like fire. And, as the evening moon climbs ever higher And blots away the shadows from the slope, They cry to me like things devoid of hope.

Pigeons are home. Day droops. The fields are cold. Now a slow wind comes labouring up the sky With a small cloud long steeped in sunset gold, Like Jason with the precious fleece anigh The harbour of Iolcos. Day's bright eye Is filmed with the twilight, and the rill Shines like a scimitar upon the hill.

And moonbeams drooping thro' the coloured wood Are full of little people winged white. I'll wander thro' the moon-pale solitude That calls across the intervening night With river voices at their utmost height, Sweet as rain-water in the blackbird's flute That strikes the world in admiration mute.