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Freedom
of the Hills
Mine
is the freedom of the tranquil hills
When
vagrant breezes bend the sinewy grass,
While
sunshine on the widespread landscape spills
And
light as down the fleet
cloud-shadowed pass.
Mine,
still, that freedom when the storm-clouds race,
Cracking
their whips against defiant crags
And
mists swirl boiling up from inky space
To
vanish on the instant, torn to rags.
When
winter grips the mountains in a vice,
Silently
stifling with its pall of snow,
Checking
the streams, draping the rocks in ice,
Still
to their mantled summits I would go.
Sun-drenched,
I sense the message they impart;
Storm-lashed,
I hear it sing through every vein;
Among
the snows it whispers to my heart
“Here
is your freedom. Taste
- and come again.”
Douglas
Fraser
1968 |