O, IT is a pleasure rare Ever to be climbing so, Winding upward through the air, Till the cloud is left below! Upward and forever round On the stairway of the stream, With the motion and the sound Of processions in a dream: While the world below all this Lies a fathomless abyss. Freedom singeth ever here, Where her sandals print the snow, And to her the pines are dear, Freely rocking to and fro; Swinging oft like stately ships, Where the billowy tempests sport; Or, as when the anchor slips Down the dreamy wave in port, Standing silent as they list Where the zephyrs furl the mist. Here the well-springs drop their pearls, All to Freedom's music strung; And the brooks, like mountain girls, Sing the songs of Freedom's tongue. And the great hills, stern and stanch, Guard her valleys and her lakes, And the rolling avalanche Blocks the path the invader makes, While her eagle, like a flag, Floats in triumph o'er the crag! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN A LECTURE-ROOM by ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH QUATRAIN: SPENDTHRIFT by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE HWOMESTEAD A-VELL INTO HAND by WILLIAM BARNES TRANSFIGURATION by MARGIE B. BOSWELL THE PHILANDERER by BERTON BRALEY CORYDON'S SUPPLICATION TO PHILLIS by NICHOLAS BRETON |