To come in touch with mysteries
Of beauty idealizing Earth,
Go seek the hills, grown old
with trees,
The old hills wise with death
and birth.
There you may hear the heart
that beats
In streams, where music has
its source;
And in wild rocks of green
retreats
Behold the silent soul of
force.
Above the love that emanates
From human passion, and reflects
The flesh, must be the love
that waits
On Nature, whose high call
elects
None to her secrets save the
few
Who hold that facts are far
less real
Than dreams, with which all
facts indue
Themselves approaching the
Ideal.