The Hill-Top

Alone upon my hill-top, After the ravelled rains, I see the cloudy mountains, I see the misty plains. Fair is my hill, and rugged, Where silken grasses grow, And the drifted clouds go by me More soft than woven snow. The pale fantastic lichens Make patterns on the stone, And the oaks are old and dwarfèd With golden mosses grown. Beneath the ancient boulders There dwells the shadowy fern; And here the twisted pine-trees To shapes of beauty turn. I wander through the seasons With thoughts of love and grief That fall with the flowers of springtime Or blow with the autumn leaf. Between the plains and mountains, Between the clouds and grass, I find the dreams that linger, And the fairer dreams that pass.