High On A Hill

There is a place among the Cape Ann hills That looks from fir-dark summits on the sea, Whose surging sapphire changes constantly Beneath deep heavens, Morning windowsills, With golden calm, or sunset citadels With storm, whose towers the winds' confederacy And bandit thunder hold in rebel fee, Swooping upon the ilsher's sail that swells. A place, where Sorrow ceases to complain, And life's old Cares put all their burdens by, And Weariness forgets itself in rest. Would that all life were like it; might obtain Its pure repose, its outlook, strong and high, That sees, beyond, far Islands of the Blest.