Back on the hills are the blossom and feather,
Glory of noon is on valley and spire;
Here is the grace of magnificent weather,
Where is the woman from gulfs of the nether?
Where is the fiend with the face of desire?
Gone, with a cry, in miraculous fire!
Sound that was not of this world, or the spacious
Splendid blue heaven, has passed from the lea;
Dead is the voice of the devil audacious:
Only a dream is her music fallacious,
Here, in the song and the shadow of tree,
Down by the green and the gold of the sea.
Bob
Singer of songs of the hills --
Dreamer, by waters unstirred,
Back in a valley of rills,
Home of the leaf and the bird! --
Read in this fall of the year
Just the compassionate phrase,
Faded with traces of tear,
Written in far-away days:
"~Gone is the light of my lap
(Lord, at Thy bidding I bow),
Here is my little one's cap,
He has no need of it now,
Give it to somebody's boy --
Somebody's darling~" -- she wrote.
Touching was Bob in his joy --
Bob without boots or a coat.
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