She was more like a tree upon a hill -- More like a sycamore than anything -- And was so much alone up there, that spring Or fall or summer she seemed quite to fill A place which otherwise had lacked the trill Of birds and grace of leafy gesturing. I think no one of us could know the sting Of high free winds could be so keen -- and kill. But all of us remember how the shade Crept sometimes down the slope and lingered there Among the trees that grew along the stream. We feel a lesser friendliness displayed Between us and the height -- we miss a stair By which we climbed to know a hill-top dream. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VISIONS: 5 by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) ECHOES: 4. INVICTUS by WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY CUMNOR HALL by WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE STRANGE MEETINGS: 10 by HAROLD MONRO THE DYING SWAN by THOMAS STURGE MOORE THE CHILD ALONE: 4. PICTURE-BOOKS IN WINTER by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON |