OH, here the air is sweet and still, And soft's the grass to lie on; And far away's the little hill They took for Christ to die on. And there's a hill across the brook, And down the brook's another; But, oh, the little hill they took, -- I think I am its mother! The moon that saw Gethsemane, I watch it rise and set; It has so many things to see, They help it to forget. But little hills that sit at home So many hundred years, Remember Greece, remember Rome, Remember Mary's tears. And far away in Palestine, Sadder than any other, Grieves still the hill that I call mine, -- I think I am its mother! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPISTLE TO WILLIAM SIMPSON OF OCHILTREE by ROBERT BURNS AT APRIL by ANGELINA WELD GRIMKE THE MAUSOLEUM by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN GLEANING by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN WHERE THE DEAD MEN LIE by BARCROFT HENRY BOAKE THE CROSS TRIUMPHANT by HARRY HOWE BOGERT |