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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LIFE [AND THE FLOWERS] by GEORGE HERBERT AT BETHLEHEM: 1. THE CHILD by JOHN BANISTER TABB STANZAS TO AUGUSTA (2) by GEORGE GORDON BYRON A VERMONT SUNDAY DINNER by DANIEL LEAVENS CADY LOOKING IN THE FIRE by ADA CAMBRIDGE BATTLE by CHARLES BADGER CLARK JR. CHARITY IN THOUGHT by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE |