HOW softly leading upward, the green slope
Leans ’gainst the southern sky,
And restful feet have reached the top before
They know they are so high.
E’en so, up from the levels of the week,
In its own quiet air,
Enthroned within a more ethereal blue,
The Sunday rises fair.
And ofttimes, as GOD’S peace from church and field
Upon their spirit lay,
A happy group down set made all their own
That gracious place and day.
Far down the shadowy tracts of gleaming sand
Seemed melting from the eye,
And all the busy week, a few dark specks,
Which sight could scarce descry.
The small waves chattered all along the shore;
But with low pleading sweet
The billows crept up to the tall black rocks,
And clasped their giant feet.
And there in talk, or silence dearer still,
They let their hearts go free,
In that sweet confidence, which nothing asks
But being still to be.
The sea discourses to them, or they launch
On summer clouds, that throw
A purple mantle wrought in peaceful skies
On dreaming waves below.
And gathering up the light of the great plain,
A web of colours rare,
They blend them, as they look, with fancies meet,
And peace of upper air,
Till where the river ’twixt the distant hills
Leads up into the skies,
In that fair borderland of earth and heaven
The changeful glory lies.
Whoso within that dreamy circle sits,
For him abideth still
The calm of upper air, the magic light
That hill sends on to hill.