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TO THEE, O father of the stately peaks, Above me in the loftier light—to thee, Imperial brother of those awful hills Whose feet are set in splendid spheres of flame, Whose heads are where the gods are, and whose sides Of strength are belted round with all the zones Of all the world, I dedicate these songs. And if, within the compass of this book, There lives and glows one verse in which there beats The pulse of wind and torrent—if one line Is here that like a running water sounds, And seems an echo from the lands of leaf, Be sure that line is thine. Here, in this home, Away from men and books and all the schools, I take thee for my Teacher. In thy voice Of deathless majesty, I, kneeling, hear God’s grand authentic Gospel! Year by year, The great sublime cantata of thy storm Strikes through my spirit—fills it with a life Of startling beauty! Thou my Bible art, With holy leaves of rock, and flower, and tree, And moss, and shining runnel. From each page That helps to make thy awful volume, I Have learned a noble lesson. In the psalm Of thy grave winds, and in the liturgy Of singing waters, lo! my soul has heard The higher worship; and from thee, indeed, The broad foundations of a finer hope Were gathered in; and thou hast lifted up The blind horizon for a larger faith! Moreover, walking in exalted woods Of naked glory, in the green and gold Of forest sunshine, I have paused like one With all the life transfigured; and a flood Of light ineffable has made me feel As felt the grand old prophets caught away By flames of inspiration; but the words Sufficient for the story of my Dream Are far too splendid for poor human lips. But thou, to whom I turn with reverent eyes— O stately Father, whose majestic face Shines far above the zone of wind and cloud, Where high dominion of the morning is— Thou hast the Song complete of which my songs Are pallid adumbrations! Certain sounds Of strong authentic sorrow in this book May have the sob of upland torrents—these, And only these, may touch the great World’s heart; For, lo! they are the issues of that grief Which makes a man more human, and his life More like that frank, exalted life of thine. But in these pages there are other tones In which thy large, superior voice is not— Through which no beauty that resembles thine Has ever shone. These are the broken words Of blind occasions, when the World has come Between me and my Dream. No song is here Of mighty compass; for my singing robes I’ve worn in stolen moments. All my days Have been the days of a laborious life, And ever on my struggling soul has burned The fierce heat of this hurried sphere. But thou, To whose fair majesty I dedicate My book of rhymes—thou hast the perfect rest Which makes the heaven of the highest gods! To thee the noises of this violent time Are far, faint whispers; and, from age to age, Within the world and yet apart from it, Thou standest! Round thy lordly capes the sea Rolls on with a superb indifference For ever; in thy deep, green, gracious glens The silver fountains sing for ever. Far Above dim ghosts of waters in the caves, The royal robe of morning on thy head Abides for ever. Evermore the wind Is thy august companion; and thy peers Are cloud, and thunder, and the face sublime Of blue mid-heaven! On thy awful brow Is Deity; and in that voice of thine There is the great imperial utterance Of God for ever; and thy feet are set Where evermore, through all the days and years, There rolls the grand hymn of the deathless wave. |