Oh, the quakers are a-turning, and my weary heart is yearning For the mystic, blue-hazed mountains where I always long to be; Where the scented air is bracing, where my blood goes wildly racing, And I quickly banish worries as my soul is stricken free. With a rioting of color, from the brilliant to the duller, All the hillsides are enveloped in a festival array, Like a brave, bedecked for battle: when the leaves begin to rattle 'Tis a sign that dreary winter soon will be along the way. In the pines the breeze is sighing for a summer that is dying, And at timberline the higher peaks are shimmering with snow; Timid deer begin their stirring; overhead the grouse are whirring -- There's an atmosphere the lowlander can never hope to know. Oh, the magic hills are calling, and my daily tasks are palling, As my thoughts are wafted westward to the thrilling upper land; For among the rugged mountains, where the streams are gushing fountains, Fall has flung his vivid paintbrush with a free and flowing hand! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPECIAL EFFECTS by JAMES GALVIN BONDAGE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON ONLY ONE MOTHER by GEORGE COOPER THE INVITATION (TO TOM HUGHES) by CHARLES KINGSLEY TELLING THE BEES (A COLONIAL CUSTOM) by LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE |