Nothing had changed, this outlook that had grown So dim with years I could but half remember The flood-torn, barren gulches twisting down To the river-plain below; and, in December, Their rimrock spruce, mitered and coped with snow. In solemn conclaves muttering together Those secret litanies of storm and weather That only their initiates may know. I could not know, till sick of strangers' ways, Strange town and folk, and alien house and street, How I had needed mountains, and how sweet Homecoming after all the aimless days. I could not know that peace which heals and stills The restless heart -- of quiet winter hills. |